The word which Dryfoos had now used three times made March at last think of Fulkerson; he had been filled too full of himself to think of anyone else till he had mastered the notion of such wonderful good fortune as seemed about falling to him. But now he did think of Fulkerson, and with some shame and confusion, for he remembered how when Dryfoos had last approached him there on the business of his connection with Every Other Week, he had been very haughty with him and told him that he did not know him in this connection. He blushed to find how far his thoughts had now run without encountering this obstacle of etiquette.
“Have you spoken to Mr. Fulkerson?” he asked.
“No, I hain’t. It ain’t a question of management, It’s a question of buying and selling. I offer the thing to you first. I reckon Fulkerson couldn’t get on very well without you.”
March saw the real difference in the two cases, and he was glad to see it, because he could act more decisively if not hampered by an obligation to consistency. “I am gratified of course, Mr. Dryfoos, extremely gratified; and it’s no use pretending that I shouldn’t be happy beyond bounds to get possession of Every Other Week. But I don’t feel quite free to talk about it, apart from Mr. Fulkerson.”
“Oh, all right!” said the old man, with quick offense.
March hastened to say, “I feel bound to Mr. Fulkerson in every way. He got me to come here, and I couldn’t even seem to act without him.”
He put it questioningly, and the old man answered, “Yes, I can see that. When’ll he be in? I can wait.” But he looked impatient.
“Very soon now,” said March, looking at his watch. “He was only to be gone a moment,” and while he went on to talk with Dryfoos, he wondered why the old man should have come first to speak with him, and whether it was from some obscure wish to make him reparation for displeasures in the past, or from a distrust or dislike of Fulkerson. Whichever light he looked at it in, it was flattering.
“Do you think of going abroad soon?” he asked.
“What? Yes-I don’t know—I reckon. We got our passage engaged. It’s on one of them French boats. We’re goin’ to Paris.”
“Oh! That will be interesting to the young ladies.”
“Yes. I reckon we’re goin’ for them. ’Tain’t likely my wife and me would want to pull up stakes at our age,” said the old man sorrowfully.
“But you may find it do you good, Mr. Dryfoos,” said March, with a kindness that was real, mixed as it was with the selfish interest he now had in the intended voyage.
“Well, maybe, maybe,” sighed the old man, and he dropped his head forward. “It don’t make a great deal of difference what we do or we don’t do for the few years left.”
“I hope Mrs. Dryfoos is as well as usual,” said March, finding the ground delicate and difficult.
“Middlin‘, middlin’,” said the old man. “My daughter Christine, she ain’t very well.”
“Oh,” said March. It was quite impossible for him to affect a more explicit interest in the fact. He and Dryfoos sat silent for a few moments, and he was vainly casting about in his thought for something else which would tide them over the interval till Fulkerson came, when he heard his step on the stairs.
“Hello, hello!” he said. “Meeting of the clans!” It was always a meeting of the clans, with Fulkerson, or a field day, or an extra session, or a regular conclave, whenever he saw people of any common interest together. “Hain’t seen you here for a good while, Mr. Dryfoos. Did think some of running away with Every Other Week one while, but couldn’t seem to work March up to the point.”
He gave Dryfoos his hand, and pushed aside the papers on the corner of March’s desk, and sat down there, and went on briskly with the nonsense he could always talk while he was waiting for another to develop any matter of business; he told March afterward that he scented business in the air as soon as he came into the room where he and Dryfoos were sitting.
Dryfoos seemed determined to leave word to March, who said after an inquiring look at him, “Mr. Dryfoos has been proposing to let us have Every Other Week, Fulkerson.”
“Well, that’s good; that suits yours truly; March & Fulkerson, publishers and proprietors, won’t pretend it don’t, if the terms are all right.”
“The terms,” said the old man, “are whatever you want ‘em. I haven’t got any more use for the concern—” He gulped, and stopped; they knew what he was thinking of, and they looked down in pity. He went on. “I won’t put any more money in it, but what I’ve put in a’ready can stay; and you can pay me four percent.”
He got upon his feet, and March and Fulkerson stood too.
“Well, I call that pretty white,” said Fulkerson. “It’s a bargain as far as I’m concerned. I suppose you’ll want to talk it over with your wife, March?”
“Yes; I shall,” said March. “I can see that it’s a great chance, but I want to talk it over with my wife.”
“Well, that’s right,” said the old man. “Let me hear from you tomorrow.”
He went out, and Fulkerson began to dance round the room. He caught March about his stalwart girth and tried to make him waltz; the afficeboy came to the door and looked on with approval.
“Come, come, you idiot!” said March, rooting himself to the carpet.
“It’s just throwing the thing into our mouths,” said Fulkerson. “The wedding will be this day week. No cards! Teedle-lumpty-diddle! Teedle-lumpty-dee! What do you suppose he means by it, March?” he asked, bringing himself soberly up of a sudden. “What is his little game? Or is he crazy? It don’t seem like the Dryfoos of my previous acquaintance.”
“I suppose,” March suggested, “that he’s got money enough, so that he don’t care for this—”
“Pshaw! You’re a poet! Don’t you know that the more money that kind of man has got, the more he cares for money? It’s some fancy of his—like having Lindau’s funeral at his house—By jings, March, I believe you’re his fancy!”
“Oh, now! Don’t you be a poet, Fulkerson!”
“I do! He seemed to take a kind of shine to you from the day you wouldn’t turn off old Lindau; he did indeed. It kind of shook him up. It made him think you had something in you. He was deceived by appearances. Look here! I’m going round to see Mrs. March with you and explain the thing to her. I know Mrs. March! She wouldn’t believe you knew what you were going in for. She has a great respect for your mind, but she don’t think you’ve got any sense. Heigh?”
“All right,” said March, glad of the notion; and it was really a comfort to have Fulkerson with him to develop all the points; and it was delightful to see how clearly and quickly she seized them; it made March proud of her. She was only angry that they had lost any time in coming to submit so plain a case to her. Mr. Dryfoos might change his mind in the night, and then everything would be lost. They must go to him instantly and tell him that they accepted; they must telegraph him.
“Might as well send a district messenger; he’d get there next week,” said Fulkerson. “No, no! It’ll all keep till tomorrow, and be the better for it. If he’s got this fancy for March, as I say, he ain’t a-going to change it in a single night. People don’t change their fancies for March in a lifetime. Heigh?”
When Fulkerson turned up very early at the office next morning, as March did, he was less strenuous about Dryfoos’ fancy for March. It was as if Miss Woodburn might have blown cold upon that theory as something unjust to his own merit, for which she would naturally be more jealous than he.
March told him what he had forgotten to tell him the day before, though he had been trying all through their excited talk to get it in: that the Dryfooses were going abroad.
“Oh, ho!” cried Fulkerson. “That’s the milk in the coconut, is it? Well, I thought there must be something.”
But this fact had not changed Mrs. March at all in her conviction that it was Mr. Dryfoos’ fancy for her husband which had moved him to make him this extraordinary offer, and she reminded him that it had first been made to h
im, without regard to Fulkerson. “And perhaps,” she went on, “Mr. Dryfoos has been changed—softened—and doesn’t find money all in all anymore. He’s had enough to change him, poor old man!”
“Does anything from without change us?” her husband mused aloud. “We’re brought up to think so by the novelists, who really have the charge of people’s thinking nowadays. But I doubt it, especially if the thing outside is some great event, something cataclysmal, like this tremendous sorrow of Dryfoos’.”
“Then what is it that changes us?” demanded his wife, almost angry with him for his heresy.
“Well, it won’t do to say, the Holy Spirit indwelling. That would sound like cant at this day. But the old fellows that used to say that had some glimpses of the truth. They knew that it is the still, small voice that the soul heeds, not the deafening blasts of doom. I suppose I should have to say that we didn’t change at all. We develop. There’s the making of several characters in each of us; we are each several characters, and sometimes this character has the lead in us, and sometimes that. From what Fulkerson has told me of Dryfoos I should say he had always had the potentiality of better things in him than he has ever been yet, and perhaps the time has come for the good to have its chance. The growth in one direction has stopped; it’s begun in another; that’s all. The man hasn’t been changed by his son’s death; it stunned, it benumbed him, but it couldn’t change him. It was an event like any other, and it had to happen as much as his being born. It was forecast from the beginning of time and was as entirely an effect of his coming into the world—”
“Basil! Basil!” cried his wife. “This is fatalism!”
“Then you think,” he said, “that a sparrow falls to the ground without the will of God?” And he laughed provokingly. But he went on more soberly. “I don’t know what it all means, Isabel, though I believe it means good. What did Christ himself say? That if one rose from the dead it would not avail. And yet we are always looking for the miraculous! I believe that unhappy old man truly grieves for his son, whom he treated cruelly without the final intention of cruelty, for he loved him and wished to be proud of him; but I don’t think his death has changed him, any more than the smallest event in the chain of events remotely working through his nature from the beginning. But why do you think he’s changed at all? Because he offers to sell me Every Other Week on easy terms? He says himself that he has no further use for the thing, and he knows perfectly well that he couldn’t get his money out of it now without an enormous shrinkage. He couldn’t appear at this late day as the owner and sell it to anybody but Fulkerson and me for a fifth of what it’s cost him. He can sell it to us for all it’s cost him, and four percent is no bad interest on his money till we can pay it back. It’s a good thing for us; but we have to ask whether Dryfoos has done us the good, or whether it’s the blessing of Heaven. If it’s merely the blessing of Heaven I don’t propose being grateful for it.”
March laughed again, and his wife said, “It’s disgusting.”
“It’s business,” he assented. “Business is business, but I don’t say it isn’t disgusting. Lindau had a low opinion of it.”
“I think that with all his faults, Mr. Dryfoos is a better man than Lindau,” she proclaimed.
“Well, he’s certainly able to offer us a better thing in Every Other Week,” said March.
She knew he was enamored of the literary finish of his cynicism and that at heart he was as humbly and truly grateful as she was for the good fortune opening to them.
XVII
BEATON WAS AT HIS BEST when he parted for the last time with Alma Leighton, for he saw then that what had happened to him was the necessary consequence of what he had been, if not what he had done. Afterward he lost this clear vision; he began to deny the fact; he drew upon his knowledge of life, and in arguing himself into a different frame of mind he alleged the case of different people who had done and been much worse things than he and yet no such disagreeable consequence had befallen them. Then he saw that it was all the work of blind chance, and he said to himself that it was this that made him desperate and willing to call evil his good and to take his own wherever he could find it. There was a great deal that was literary and factitious and tawdry in the mood in which he went to see Christine Dryfoos, the night when the Marches sat talking their prospects over, and nothing that was decided in his purpose. He knew what the drift of his mind was, but he had always preferred to let chance determine his events, and now since chance had played him such an ill turn with Alma, he left it the whole responsibility. Not in terms, but in effect, this was his thought as he walked on uptown to pay the first of the visits which Dryfoos had practically invited him to resume. He had an insolent satisfaction in having delayed it so long; if he was going back he was going back on his own conditions, and these were to be as hard and humiliating as he could make them. But this intention again was inchoate, floating, the stuff of an intention rather than intention, an expression of temperament chiefly.
He had been expected before that. Christine had got out of Mela that her father had been at Beaton’s studio, and then she had gone at the old man and got from him every smallest fact of the interview there. She had flung back in his teeth the goodwill toward herself with which he had gone to Beaton. She was furious with shame and resentment; she told him he had made bad worse, that he had made a fool of himself to no end; she spared neither his age nor his grief-broken spirit, in which his will could not rise against hers. She filled the house with her rage, screaming it out upon him, but when her fury was once spent, she began to have some hopes from what her father had done. She no longer kept her bed; every evening she dressed herself in the dress Beaton admired the most and sat up till a certain hour to receive him. She had fixed a day in her own mind before which, if he came, she would forgive him all he had made her suffer: the mortification, the suspense, the despair. Beyond this, she had the purpose of making her father go to Europe; she felt that she could no longer live in America, with the double disgrace that had been put upon her.
Beaton rang, and while the servant was coming, the insolent caprice seized him to ask for the young ladies, instead of the old man as he had supposed of course he should do. The maid who answered the bell in the place of the reluctant Irishman of other days had all his hesitation in admitting that the young ladies were at home.
He found Mela in the drawing room. At sight of him she looked scared, but she seemed to be reassured by his calm. He asked if he was not to have the pleasure of seeing Miss Dryfoos too, and Mela said she reckoned the girl had gone upstairs to tell her. Mela was in black, and Beaton noted how well the solid sable became her rich, red-blond beauty; he wondered what the effect would be with Christine.
But she, when she appeared, was not in mourning. He fancied that she wore the lustrous black silk, with the breadths of white Venetian lace about the neck, which he had praised, because he praised it. Her cheeks burned with a Jacqueminot crimson; what should be white in her face was chalky white. She carried a plumed ostrich fan, black and soft, and after giving him her hand, sat down and waved it to and fro slowly, as he remembered her doing the night they first met. She had no ideas, except such as related intimately to herself, and she had no gabble like Mela; and she let him talk. It was past the day when she had promised herself she would forgive him; but as he talked on she felt all her passion for him revive, and the conflict of desires—the desire to hate, the desire to love—made a dizzying whirl in her brain. She looked at him, half doubting whether he was really there or not. He had never looked so handsome, with his dreamy eyes floating under his heavy overhanging hair and his pointed brown beard defined against his lustrous shirtfront. His mellowly modulated, mysterious voice lulled her; when Mela made an errand out of the room and Beaton crossed to her and sat down by her, she shivered.
“Are you cold?” he asked, and she felt the cruel mockery and exultant consciousness of power in his tone, as perhaps a wild thing feels captivity in the voice of its keeper. But now
she said she would still forgive him if he asked her.
Mela came back, and the talk fell again to the former level; but Beaton had not said anything that really meant what she wished, and she saw that he intended to say nothing. Her heart began to burn like a fire in her breast.
“You been tellun’ him about our goun’ to Europe?” Mela asked.
“No,” said Christine briefly and looking at the fan spread out on her lap.
Beaton asked when; and then he rose and said if it was so soon, he supposed he should not see them again, unless he saw them in Paris; he might very likely run over during the summer. He said to himself that he had given it a fair trial with Christine, and he could not make it go.
Christine rose, with a kind of gasp, and mechanically followed him to the door of the drawing room; Mela came too, and while he was putting on his overcoat, she gurgled and bubbled in good-humor with all the world. Christine stood looking at him and thinking how handsomer still he was in his overcoat, and that fire burned fiercer in her. She felt him more than life to her and knew him lost, and the frenzy that makes a woman kill the man she loves, or fling vitriol to destroy the beauty she cannot have for all hers, possessed her lawless soul. He gave his hand to Mela and said in his wind-harp stop, “Good-bye.”
As he put out his hand to Christine, she pushed it aside with a scream of rage; she flashed at him and with both hands made a feline pass at the face he bent toward her. He sprang back, and after an instant of stupefaction, he pulled open the door behind him and ran out into the street.
“Well, Christine Dryfoos!” said Mela. “Spag at him like a wildcat!”
“I don’t care,” Christine shrieked. “I’ll tear his eyes out!” She flew upstairs to her own room and left the burden of the explanation to Mela, who did it justice.
A Hazard of New Fortunes Page 51
