But there was the children, you’ll say. I know, I know! And she did love her children in a way; only it wasn’t their way. The girl, who was a good bit the eldest, took after her father: a plain face and plain words. Dogs and horses and athletics. With her mother she was cold and scared; so her mother was cold and scared with her. The boy was delicate when he was little, so she could curl him up, and put him into black velvet pants, like that boy in the book—little Lord Something. But when his long legs grew out of the pants, and they sent him to school, she said he wasn’t her own little coodly baby any more; and it riles a growing boy to hear himself talked about like that.
She had good friends left, of course; mostly elderly ladies they were, of her own age (for she was elderly now; the change had come), who used to drop in often for a gossip; but, bless your heart, they weren’t much help, for what she wanted, and couldn’t do without, was the gaze of men struck dumb by her beauty. And that was what she couldn’t get any longer, except she paid for it. And even so—!
For, you see, she was too quick and clever to be humbugged long by the kind that tried to get things out of her. How she used to laugh at the old double-chinners trotting round to the night-clubs with their boy friends! She laughed at old ladies in love; and yet she couldn’t bear to be out of love, though she knew she was getting to be an old lady herself. ‘
Well, I remember one day another patient of mine, who’d never had much looks beyond what you can buy in Fifth Avenue, laughing at me about Mrs. Clingsland, about her dread of old age, and her craze for admiration—and as I listened, I suddenly thought: “Why, we don’t either of us know anything about what a beautiful woman suffers when she loses her beauty. For you and me, and thousands like us, beginning to grow old is like going from a bright warm room to one a little less warm and bright; but to a beauty like Mrs. Clingsland it’s like being pushed out of an illuminated ballroom, all flowers and chandeliers, into the winter night and the snow.” And I had to bite the words back, not to say them to my patient…
IV.
Mrs. Clingsland brightened up a little when her own son grew up and went to college. She used to go over and see him now and again; or he’d come home for the holidays. And he used to take her out for lunch, or to dance at those cabaret places; and when the head-waiters took her for his sweetheart she’d talk about it for a week. But one day a hall porter said: “Better hurry up, mister. There’s your mother waiting for you over there, looking clean fagged out”; and after that she didn’t go round with him so much.
For a time she used to get some comfort out of telling me about her early triumphs; and I used to listen patiently, because I knew it was safer for her to talk to me than to the flatterers who were beginning to get round her.
You mustn’t think of her, though, as an unkind woman. She was friendly to her husband, and friendly to her children; but they meant less and less to her. What she wanted was a looking-glass to stare into; and when her own people took enough notice of her to serve as looking-glasses, which wasn’t often, she didn’t much fancy what she saw there. I think this was about the worst time of her life. She lost a tooth; she began to dye her hair; she went into retirement to have her face lifted, and then get frightened, and came out again looking like a ghost, with a pouch under one eye, where they’d begun the treatment…
I began to be really worried about her then. She got sour and bitter toward everybody, and I seemed to be the only person she could talk out to. She used to keep me by her for hours, always paying for the appointments she made me miss, and going over the same thing again and again; how when she was young and came into a ball-room, or a restaurant or a theatre, everybody stopped what they were doing to turn and look at her—even the ac-ors on the stage did, she said; and it was the truth, I daresay, but that was over…
Well, what could I say to her? She’d heard it all often enough. But there were people fowling about in the background that I didn’t like the look of people, you understand, who live on weak women that can grow old. One day she showed me a love-letter. She said she didn’t know the man who’d sent it; but she knew about him. He was a Count Somebody; a foreigner. He’d had adventures. Trouble in his own country, I guess… She laughed and tore the letter up. Another came from him, and I saw that too—but I didn’t see her tear it up.
“Oh, I know what he’s after,” she said. “Those kind of men are always looking out for silly old women with money… Ah,” says she, “it was different in old times. I remember one day I’d gone into a florist’s to buy some violets, and I saw a young fellow there; well, maybe he was a little younger than me—but I looked like a girl still. And when he saw me he just stopped short with what he was saying to the florist, and his face turned so white I thought he was going to faint. I bought my violets; and as I went out a violet dropped from the bunch, and I saw him stoop and pick it up, and hide it away as if it had been money he’d stolen… Well,” she says, “a few days after that I met him at a dinner, and it turned out he was the son of a friend of mine, a woman older than myself, who’d married abroad. He’d been brought up in England, and had just come to New York to take up a job there…”
She lay back with her eyes closed, and a quiet smile on her poor tormented face. “I didn’t know it then, but I suppose that was the only time I’ve ever been in love…” For a while she didn’t say anything more, and I noted the tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. “Tell me about it, now do, you poor soul,” I says; for I thought, this is letter for her than fandangoing with that oily Count whose letter she hasn’t torn up.
“There’s so little to tell,” she said. “We met only four or five times—and then Harry went down on the Titanic.”
“Mercy,” says I, “and was it all those years ago?”
“The years don’t make any difference, Cora,” she says. “The way he looked at me I know no one ever worshipped me as he did.”
“And did he tell you so?” I went on, humouring her; though I felt kind of guilty toward her husband.
“Some things don’t have to be told,” says she, with the smile of a bride. “If only he hadn’t died, Cora… It’s the sorrowing for him that’s made me old before my time.” (Before her time! And her well over fifty.)
Well, a day or two after that I got a shock. Coming out of Mrs. Clingsland’s front door as I was going into it I met a woman I’d know among a million if I was to meet her again in hell—where I will, I know, if I don’t mind my steps… You see, Moyra, though I broke years ago with all that crystal-reading, and table-rapping, and what the Church forbids, I was mixed up in it for a time (till Father Divott ordered me to stop), and I knew, by sight at any rate, most of the big mediums and their touts. And this woman on the doorstep was a tout, one of the worst and most notorious in New York; I knew cases where she’d sucked people dry selling them the news they wanted, like she was selling them a forbidden drug. And all of a sudden it came to me that I’d heard it said that she kept a foreign Count, who was sucking her dry—and I gave one jump home to my own place, and sat down there to think it over.
I saw well enough what was going to happen. Either she’d persuade my poor lady that the Count was mad over her beauty, and get a hold over her that way; or else—and this was worse—she’d make Mrs. Clingsland talk, and get at the story of the poor young man called Harry, who was drowned, and bring her messages from him; and that might go on forever, and bring in more money than the Count…
Well, Moyra, could I help it? I was so sorry for her, you see. I could see she was sick and fading away, and her will weaker than it used to be; and if I was to save her from those gangsters I had to do it right away, and make it straight with my conscience afterward—if I could…
V.
I don’t believe I ever did such hard thinking as I did that night. For what was I after doing? Something that was against my Church and against my own principles; and if ever I got found out, it was all up with me—me, with my thirty years
’ name of being the best masseuse in New York, and none honester, nor more respectable!
Well, then, I says to myself, what’ll happen if that woman gets hold of Mrs. Clingsland? Why, one way or another, she’ll bleed her white, and then leave her without help or comfort. I’d seen households where that had happened, and I wasn’t going to let it happen to my poor lady. What I was after was to make her believe in herself again, so that she’d be in a kindlier mind toward others … and by the next day I’d thought my plan out, and set it going.
It wasn’t so easy, neither; and I sometimes wonder at my nerve. I’d figured it out that the other woman would have to work the stunt of the young man who was drowned, because I was pretty sure Mrs. Clingsland, at the last minute, would shy away from the Count. Well, then, thinks I, I’ll work the same stunt myself—but how?
You see, dearie, those big people, when they talk and write to each other, they use lovely words we ain’t used to; and I was afraid if I began to bring messages to her, I’d word them wrong, and she’d suspect something. I knew I could work it the first day or the second; but after that I wasn’t so sure. But there was no time to lose, and when I went back to her next morning I said: “A queer thing happened to me last night. I guess it was the way you spoke to me about that gentleman—the one on the Titanic. Making me see him as clear as if he was in the room with us—” and at that I had her sitting up in bed with her great eyes burning into me like gimlets. “Oh, Cora, perhaps he is’. Oh, tell me quickly what happened!”
“Well, when I was laying in my bed last night something came to me from him. I knew at once it was from him; it was a word he was telling me to bring you…”
I had to wait then, she was crying so hard, before she could listen to me again; and when I went on she hung on to me, saving the word, as if I’d been her Saviour. The poor woman!
The message I’d hit on for that first day was easy enough. I said he’d told me to tell her he’d always loved her. It went down her throat like honey, and she just lay there and tasted it. But after a while she lifted up her head. “Then why didn’t he tell me so?” says she.
“Ah,” says I, “I’ll have to try to reach him again, and ask him that.” And that day she fairly drove me off on my other jobs, for fear I’d be late getting home, and too tired to hear him if he came again. “And he will come, Cora; I know he will! And you must be ready for him, and write down everything. I want every word written down the minute he says it, for fear you’ll forget a single one.”
Well, that was a new difficulty. Writing wasn’t ever my strong point; and when it came to finding the words for a young gentleman in love who’d gone down on the Titanic, you might as well have asked me to write a Chinese dictionary. Not that I couldn’t imagine how he’d have felt; but I didn’t for Mary’s grace know how to say it for him.
But it’s wonderful, as Father Divott says, how Providence sometimes seems to be listening behind the door. That night when I got home I found a message from a patient, asking me to go to see a poor young fellow she’d befriended when she was better off—he’d been her children’s tutor, I believe—who was down and out, and dying in a miserable rooming-house down here at Montclair. Well, I went; and I saw at once why he hadn’t kept this job, or any other job. Poor fellow, it was the drink; and now he was dying of it. It was a pretty bad story, but there’s only a bit of it belongs to what I’m telling you.
He was a highly educated gentleman, and as quick as a flash; and before I’d half explained, he told me what to say, and wrote out the message for me. I remember it now. “He was so blinded by your beauty that he couldn’t speak—and when he saw you the next time, at that dinner, in your bare shoulders and your pearls, he felt farther away from you than ever. And he walked the streets till morning, and then went home, and wrote you a letter; but he didn’t dare to send it after all.”
This time Mrs. Clingsland swallowed it down like champagne. Blinded by her beauty; struck dumb by love of her! Oh, but that’s what she’d been thirsting and hungering for all these years. Only, once it had begun, she had to have more of it, and always more … and my job didn’t get any easier.
Luckily, though, I had that young fellow to help me; and after a while, when I’d given him a hint of what it was all about, he got as much interested as I was, and began to fret for me the days I didn’t come.
But, my, what questions she asked. “Tell him, if it’s true that I took his breath away that first evening at dinner, to describe to you how I was dressed. They must remember things like that even in the other world, don’t you think so? And you say he noticed my pearls?”
Luckily she’d described that dress to me so often that I had no difficulty about telling the young man what to say—and so it went on, and it went on, and one way or another I managed each time to have an answer that satisfied her. But one day, after Harry’d sent her a particularly lovely message from the Over There (as those people call it) she burst into tears and cried out: “Oh, why did he never say things like that to me when we were together?”
That was a poser, as they say; I couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t. Of course I knew it was all wrong and immoral, anyway; but, poor thing, I don’t see who it can hurt to help the love-making between a sick woman and a ghost. And I’d taken care to say a Novena against Father Divott finding me out.
Well, I told the poor young man what she wanted to know, and he said: “Oh, you can tell her an evil influence came between them. Some one who was jealous, and worked against him—here, give me a pencil, and I’ll write it out …” and he pushed out his hot twitching hand for the paper.
That message fairly made her face burn with joy. “I knew it—I always knew it!” She flung her thin arms about me, and kissed me. “Tell me again, Cora, how he said I looked the first day he saw me…”
“Why, you must have looked as you look now,” says I to her, “for there’s twenty years fallen from your face.” And so there was.
What helped me to keep on was that she’d grown so much gender and quieter. Less impatient with the people who waited on her, more understanding with the daughter and Mr. Clingsland. There was a different atmosphere in the house. And sometimes she’d say: “Cora, there must be poor souls in trouble, with nobody to hold out a hand to them; and I want you to come to me when you run across anybody like that.” So I used to keep that poor young fellow well looked after, and cheered up with little dainties. And you’ll never make me believe there was anything wrong in that—or in letting Mrs. Clingsland help me out with the new roof on this house, either.
But there was a day when I found her sitting up in bed when I came in, with two red spots on her thin cheeks. And all the peace had gone out of her poor face. “Why, Mrs. Clingsland, my dear, what’s the matter?” But I could see well enough what it was. Somebody’d been undermining her belief in spirit-communications, or whatever they call them, and she’d been crying herself into a fever, thinking I’d made up all I’d told her. “How do I know you’re a medium, anyhow,” she flung out at me with pitiful furious eyes, “and not taking advantage of me with all this stuff every morning?”
Well, the queer thing was that I took offense at that, not because I was afraid of being found out, but because—heaven help us!—I’d somehow come to believe in that young man Harry and his love-making, and it made me angry to be treated as a fraud. But I kept my temper and my tongue, and went on with the massage as if I hadn’t heard her; and she was ashamed to say any more to me. The quarrel between us lasted a week; and then one day, poor soul, she said, whimpering like a drug-taker: “Cora, I can’t get on without the messages you bring me. The ones I get through other people don’t sound like Harry—and yours do.”
I was so sorry for her then that I had hard work not to cry with her; but I kept my head, and answered quietly: “Mrs.
Clingsland, I’ve been going against my Church, and risking my immortal soul, to get those messages through to you; and if you’ve found others that can help you, so much the better
for me, and I’ll go and make my peace with Heaven this very evening,” I said.
“But the other messages don’t help me, and I don’t want to disbelieve in you,” she sobbed out. “Only lying awake all night and turning things over, I get so miserable. I shall die if you can’t prove to me that it’s really Harry speaking to you.”
I began to pack up my things. “I can’t prove that, I’m afraid,” I says in a cold voice, turning away my head so she wouldn’t see the tears running down my cheeks.
“Oh, but you must, Cora, or I shall die!” she entreated me; and she looked as if she would, the poor soul.
“How can I prove it to you?” I answered. For all my pity for her, I still resented the way she’d spoken; and I thought how glad I’d be to get the whole business off my soul that very night in the confessional.
She opened her great eyes and looked up at me; and I seemed to see the wraith of her young beauty looking out of them. “There’s only one way,” she whispered.
“Well,” I said, still offended, “what’s the way?”
“You must ask him to repeat to you that letter he wrote, and didn’t dare send to me. I’ll know instantly then if you’re in communication with him, and if you are I’ll never doubt you any more.”
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