by Howard Mason
Sibyl rose; they all rose.
“Come up to my room,” Elly murmured. “The first moment you can. I’ll be waiting.”
Sibyl and Luther went out onto the terrace, and Killian with them. He tried to think of an excuse for leaving them; and in the end he just walked off, into the house. He liked Elly; if she wanted to see him, he complied automatically. But as he was going up the stairs, an idea came into his head that stopped him.
Chauverney’s dead, he thought. That’s what she wants to tell me. He felt sure of that. That’s why she looked like that. He’s dead. Well, why talk about it? It’s too bad. But there’s nothing to be done.
It seemed to him impossible to go on up the stairs and face Elly. And talk. I’m sorry Chauverney’s dead. But when a person’s dead, he’s dead. Nothing to talk about. Elly’d better go home and carry on as well as she can. There’s no sense in my going up to her room, just to hear that Chauverney’s dead.
The sound of footsteps in the hall below started him up in a hurry. You have to hear things. You have to listen, and be decent, even when you’re completely indifferent. He knocked at Elly’s door, and she opened it, and let him in, and closed it. She looks terrible, he thought.
He saw two suitcases, very smart, the lids open, showing some admirable packing. She does everything nicely, he thought. She was kind to me on the ship.
“I’ve got to tell you something,” she said, standing with her hand on the back of a chair.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“But do you know…?” she asked.
“Well…Chauverney, isn’t it?”
“Do you know?” she asked, again. “Did she tell you?”
“You mean he’s worse,” said Killian.
“No,” said Elly. “He’s better. But he told me last night.… He and Jocelyn are married.”
“Really?” said Killian, raising his eyebrows.
“If he’d only told me,” she said, “I’d have understood.”
“Sit down, Elly,” said Killian. “And look here, Elly! Don’t cry.”
“I won’t,” she said. “At least, I don’t think I will. Only, it’s so.…”
She did sit down in the chair; and he sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. “Take it easy,” he said.
“They were married nearly a year ago,” said Elly. “But they never got on. How could they? She went to Mexico and got a divorce.”
“Then they’re not married now,” said Killian.
“Yes, they are. Charlie thought he was divorced. He—we planned to be married in the autumn. But she came on board, in B.A., and she told him. Her lawyer had told her, months ago, that the divorce wasn’t valid, but she hadn’t bothered to tell Charlie. She told him then, on the ship.”
“I see!” said Killian.
“She was going to start divorce proceedings when she got back to New York. You know what that means, in this state. All that sordid, nasty business. And it suddenly came into her head that she’d name me as correspondent. Charlie told her there were no grounds, but she didn’t care. He was almost frantic. He felt he couldn’t let it go undefended, on my account. And if he did defend it, it would be in the newspapers and ruin him. The company wouldn’t keep a Purser who’d got mixed up in a scandal with a passenger.”
“I see!” said Killian again. He couldn’t say anything else.
“He tried to argue with her. But he couldn’t stop her.”
Did he try to stop her?
“That’s why he came here,” Elly went on. “He hoped Mr. Bell could persuade her. He really shouldn’t have left the ship yesterday; but he got twelve hours leave, and came here. And Mr. Bell was odious. He said he wouldn’t be hurried. He said he wouldn’t discuss the matter at night, because it kept him awake. So Charlie did that.”
“Tried to kill himself.”
“No! He only meant it to be an injury that would be an excuse to stay here a day or two, until he’d talked to Mr. Bell. He was going to say he’d cut himself while he was shaving.”
“Cut his wrist?”
“The razor could slip. Anyhow, that was the only thing he could think of. But the cut began to bleed dreadfully. He held it under cold water; he tried to tie it up. He said he got so curiously lightheaded. He said he felt sure he was dying, but that he wasn’t at all frightened or unhappy about it—only surprised.”
“That’s how he looked,” said Killian.
“Sibyl Bell’s one idea was to get him away, so that he wouldn’t die here.”
Like a rat, thought Killian. Positively will not die in the house. “Yes,” he said.
“I was shocked, furious at her. And Doctor Ponievsky agreed with me that he must be moved. But then he came to, and he said he wanted to go. He told me—about this. He thought he was dying. We took him to a little private hospital, and they gave him a blood transfusion. He’s going to live. But he’s ruined.”
“Well, not necessarily,” said Killian.
“He is—unless you stop her from going on with this divorce.”
“Well, she might change her mind,” said Killian. “She often does.”
“She won’t. She’s doing this, in a hurry, so that she can get free—to marry you.”
“Well,” said Killian, “the chances are she’ll drop it.”
“John, won’t you see to it that she doesn’t go on?”
He did not answer.
“Won’t you stop her?” cried Elly.
“Well…” he said, with a vague smile.
Elly rose. “I suppose,” she said, unsteadily, “that you don’t care what happens to Charlie. You don’t care about anything but marrying Jocelyn.”
It was very hard for Killian not to burst out laughing. He could not control a wide grin.
“What are you grinning at?” Elly demanded.
“I’m sorry,” he said, hastily. “Just a reaction.”
“Will you stop her? Get her to go to Reno.”
“I’ll see what can be done,” Killian assured her.
But she was not satisfied. “Please try to realize what this means to Charlie,” she said. “His whole career is wrecked.”
“He hasn’t managed very well,” Killian said.
“He was desperate,” said Elly.
How desperate? thought Killian. Desperate enough to tip her overboard? Was he with you all the time that evening, Elly? Every minute? Or did he leave you for a little while? A thing like that wouldn’t take long to do.
“I thought you’d help me,” said Elly.
“Well, I’ll see,” he said.
Her stretched lip quivered; her dark eyes fixed on his face, filled with tears. She was hurt, astounded, bewildered by his vagueness.
“All right,” she cried. “If you don’t care.…”
“I don’t care about anything but marrying Jocelyn,” he said to himself, and laughter came rushing up again, and he had to gulp it down. Jocelyn’s so absent-minded, he thought. She forgot to mention that she was married. Not that it matters, of course. Only, when she was talking about marrying me, she might just have mentioned it. Casually. Darling, I will marry you, as soon as I get rid of Chauverney.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. “You’ve made a fool of me, Jocelyn,” he said to himself. “Something more than a fool. You’ve done something to me. I don’t quite know what, but maybe you’ve ruined me, too. Among others. I think I feel ruined. You lied to me. You’ve been false to me. False, in every way. And now I quit.”
He got up. “I’ll see what I can do, Elly,” he said. “I’m sorry, very sorry.”
She didn’t believe that. She didn’t understand, and he could not explain.
“See you later,” he said, and left her.
He went into his own room, and locked the door. “I quit,” he said to himself. “I’m sorr
y about Elly; but I can’t help it. I quit. It’s finished. I can’t see Jocelyn again. I couldn’t speak to her. I don’t hate her. I just want to get away from her, that’s all. No explanation, no note. I’m going, that’s all.”
She’s poison, he thought. She can’t help that, any more than a rattlesnake can help it. But you have to get away from her. My father would be upset. He’s an upright man. He’d be very much upset if he knew I’d been making love to another man’s wife. Worse than that. Getting all set to marry another man’s wife.
He could laugh now. I fed her with toast. I knew she was a little tramp—but I did not know she was a rattlesnake. Married to Chauverney, and living on Mr. Bell. On blackmail. Chauverney’s got away, to a hospital; and Doctor Eric Ponievsky is going to get away, to Poland. And where am I going?
Back to New York. To look for room with refined couple, mid-town section, references exchanged. I’ll walk into the office to-morrow morning. Hello, Killian! How was the trip? Fine, fine! How about the beautiful Señoritas down there in South America? Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Come out and have a drink and let’s hear about the beautiful Señoritas. Sorry, but I’m poisoned. By Cupid’s darts.
Someone knocked at the door, but he thought he wouldn’t answer. The someone rattled the knob.
“What do you want?” he called.
“It’s Harriet.”
What of it? he thought. “I’m dressing,” he said.
“Put something on and open the door,” she said. Not imperiously, just in a young way.
He opened the door, and in she came.
“I’ve been talking to mother,” she said. “She says she’s told you about—the situation. Of course, you had to know it; but it must have been hard to bear.”
“Not so good,” he said, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I think you’re a darn nice boy.”
He stared at her. A nice boy?
“Well, no,” he said presently.
“I think so,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that before I go.”
“Going away?”
“Yep. Going home. I have a nice little apartment in New York.”
You’re a girl, he thought. You have a nice little apartment. You have a job, and you have friends. You go to the movies. You’re an honest-to-God girl. He felt as if he had known her a long time ago, and lost her, and now he wanted her back. He wanted all of that back. This is Sunday, he thought. You could go to the zoo, with everybody else. You could go to a little French table d’hôte for dinner, and take a ride on top of a bus. With everybody else. I used to have all that. I used to work and live along with everybody else—until somehow this happened, and I got cut off.
I am cut off now. Like a ghost.
Harriet came over to him, and put her arm around his shoulders; she tried to draw him close to her, but he was too bony and unyielding. Oh, God! he thought. I feel like going all to pieces. I feel like resting my head on your shoulder and closing my eyes. And letting go.
“I’m sorry about all this, Johnny,” she said.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” he said, politely.
“About Eric?” she asked. “That’s different. It was a jolt, but it’s different. I’m different from you. Tougher, I guess.”
“Maybe you are,” he said.
“Mother said you’re taking Jocelyn out on the boat.”
“I’m not!”
“Do!” she said. “Get it over with.”
“It is over with.”
“But you’ll have to hear what she’s got to say for herself.”
“No,” he said.
“You’ll hate yourself, if you don’t.” She took away her arm. “Johnny, ring me up soon, and I’ll ask you to dinner. I’m in the telephone book.”
“She thinks this is going to end,” he said to himself when she was gone. “That was a very strange idea. She thinks I can have an honest, manly talk with Jocelyn; and then we shake hands and say good-by. ’Tis better thus. Oh, God! A nice boy.”
Get it over with. You’ll hate yourself if you don’t. And you’ll hate yourself if you do.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He stayed in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking. He was on guard, very alert; he was all ready—for something. For a knock at the door. He was ready for it, tense and resolute. Waiting for something.
It came, as sudden and breath-taking as a pistol shot; a knock. He got up.
“Well?” he said evenly.
“Miss Frey says she’s ready, sir,” said a soft little voice.
“Oh! Oh, thanks,” he said.
“Miss Frey says she’ll meet you on the terrace, sir.”
“Thanks,” he said.
I’ll have to see Mr. Bell, Killian thought. And Elly. And Sibyl, and Harriet. Now, let’s see. What face shall I wear? The nice-boy face? I’ve lost it. He looked in the mirror while he combed his hair and straightened his tie. I don’t know what face to wear. Jocelyn’s made a fool of me, only I don’t feel like a fool. I feel like a ghost. All right! Be a ghost. Walk down the stairs and out on the terrace, like a zombie. Don’t speak, and don’t look at anyone.
He walked down the stairs and out on to the terrace, and there wasn’t anybody there. Nobody there. That made you feel pretty flat, my boy. Nobody here. Just look at the nice quiet Sunday afternoon. The sun is shining, and that lawn is like green velvet, and there are those fine old trees against a blue sky. You came ready to be melodramatic, and here’s what you find. I’m smoking up all the Bahia cigarettes I bought to give my friends.
Jocelyn came out of the house. She came in her drifting way, light as a leaf. Her hair was tied at the temples with little black bows, and she wore a thin, long-sleeved white blouse and a white flannel skirt, and she carried a white coat over her arm.
“Isn’t the car here?” she asked.
“I don’t see it,” he answered.
She sat down in a chair and leaned back, with her ankles crossed. She looks like a girl, he thought. She looks gentle and tired, and she’s beautiful, and she’s nineteen.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, in her slow, muffled voice.
“Nothing at all, Mrs. Chauverney,” he answered.
You thought that was going to be dramatic, did you? Wrong, m’boy! She never turned a hair.
“Do you want to talk about that?” she asked.
“Not here.”
“Nobody to interrupt,” she said. “Sibyl and Harriet are shut up together, and Elly’s gone, and Luther’s taking a nap. He doesn’t like that mentioned. He’s sixty-five years young. He does exercises in the morning. He has a sort of bicycle machine to sit on—all the windows open. He sits there pedaling away, with his chin up, and then he eats vitamins.”
“Sure. He’s a fool. Everybody’s a fool. Isn’t that so?”
“Maybe. But that’s not the way people look to me.”
“And how do people look to you, Mrs. Chauverney?”
She looked at him. “Cruel,” she said. “Like you.”
“Am I cruel to you?” he asked. “When you’re so kind to me? So kind, and faithful?”
“I’ve been kind to you,” she said, still looking at him steadily. “And faithful.”
“My feelings are hurt,” he said, “because you haven’t confided in me. I know it’s only a trifle, but I’m hurt that you didn’t mention you were married. I’d have felt very much embarrassed if I’d found that out after I’d married you.”
“I’d have told you before that,” she said. “But Chauvie’s begged me to keep quiet about it.”
“That’s a very worthy reason. But still and all, I do think a girl ought to tell her fiancée when she’s married to somebody else. It’s only etiquette.”
“This isn’t important,” she said. “I never pretended you were the first
man in my life. Our marriage was just wretched. It didn’t last six weeks. It was finished months ago.”
“It seems not to be finished.”
“There won’t be any trouble with the legal part of it.”
“Mere man-made laws,” said Killian.
“I don’t understand you,” she said. “Does it really mean such a lot to you that I’ve been married?”
“Are married.”
“All right. Call it being married, if you like. Is it so important?”
“You’ve lied to me,” he said. “You’ve made a fool of me.”
“I’ve never lied to you,” she said. “Never once, about anything.”
“This is what’s called quibbling,” said Killian. “When I asked you to marry me and you said you would, and you didn’t tell me you had a husband, that’s what I call a lie.”
“All right,” she said.
He waited. But she didn’t go on.
“Now we just drop the subject?” he asked.
“Well, what more is there to say? Chauvie asked me to get a divorce, and I did. I went to Mexico and got one. I did it on his account. I didn’t care. I wasn’t thinking about marrying again, ever.”
“Your next plan was different, wasn’t it?” Killian asked. “This next divorce was going to ruin him.”
“He wanted to get rid of me, and I tried to do it his way. It didn’t work. Do you think I ought to go on, trying to spare Chauvie’s feelings? He’s nearly twenty years older than me.”
“Even at that age, he won’t like being ruined.”
“I’m not vindictive,” she said. “You ought to know that. But I won’t pretend I care too much what happens to Chauvie. I want to get free, that’s all.”
“I like Elly,” Killian said. “I don’t like to see her squashed.”
She clasped her hands behind her head, and then let them fall, as if she were too tired.
“You don’t want Elly to be hurt,” she said. “Or Chauvie, or anyone. Only me. I could tell you a little about that marriage. I suppose I could put up a case for myself. But I won’t. What’s the use? You’ve made up your mind in advance that I’m in the wrong, about everything. Let it go.”
Made up my mind in advance? Killian thought. Before I heard you? Maybe. But let it go. I don’t want Elly hurt, or Chauverney, or anyone, except you? Let that go, too. I’m a zombie, a ghost. I don’t feel at all any more. I hope I never do any more.
