BABYLON
REVISITED
"AND
WHERE'S Mr. Campbell?" Charlie asked.
"Gone
to Switzerland. Mr. Campbell's a pretty sick man, Mr.
Wales."
"I'm
sorry to hear that. And George Hardt?" Charlie inquired.
"Back
in America, gone to work."
"And
where is the Snow Bird?"
"He
was in here last week. Anyway, his friend, Mr. Schaeffer, is
in
Paris."
Two
familiar names from the long list of a year and a half ago.
Charlie
scribbled an address in his notebook and tore out the page.
"If
you see Mr. Schaeffer, give him this," he said. "It's my brother-
in-law's
address. I haven't settled on a hotel yet."
He was
not really disappointed to find Paris was so empty. But the
stillness
in the Ritz bar was strange and portentous. It was not an
American
bar any more he felt polite in it, and not as if he owned
it. It
had gone back into France. He felt the stillness from the mo-
ment he
got out of the taxi and saw the doorman, usually in a frenzy
of
activity at this hour, gossiping with a chasseur by the servants'
entrance.
Passing
through the corridor, he heard only a single, bored voice in
the
once-clamorous women's room. When he turned into the bar he
traveled
the twenty feet of green carpet with his eyes fixed straight
ahead by old
habit; and then, with his foot firmly on the rail, he
turned
and surveyed the room, encountering only a single pair of
eyes that
fluttered up from a newspaper in the corner. Charlie asked
for the
head barman, Paul, who in the latter days of the bull market
had come
to work in his own custom-built car disembarking, how-
ever,
with due nicety at the nearest corner. But Paul was at his coun-
try house
today and Alix giving him information.
"No,
no more," Charlie said, "I'm going slow these days."
Alix
congratulated him : "You were going pretty strong a couple
of years
ago."
"Ill
stick to it all right," Charlie assured him. "I've stuck to it for
over a
year and a half now."
"How
do you find conditions in America?"
"I
haven't been to America for months. I'm in business in Prague,
representing
a couple of concerns there. They don't know about me
down
there."
Alix
smiled.
"Remember
the night of George Hardt's bachelor dinner here?"
said
Charlie. "By the way, what's become of Claude Fessenden?"
Alix
lowered his voice confidentially: "He's in Paris, but he doesn't
come here
any more. Paul doesn't allow it. He ran up a bill of thirty
thousand
francs, charging all his drinks and his lunches, and usually
his
dinner, for more than a year. And when Paul finally told him he
had to
pay, he gave him a bad check."
Alix
shook his head sadly.
"I
don't understand it, such a dandy fellow. Now he's all bloated
up "
He made a plump apple of his hands.
Charlie
watched a group of strident queens installing themselves
in a
corner.
"Nothing
affects them," he thought. "Stocks rise and fall, people
loaf or
work, but they go on forever." The place oppressed him. He
called
for the dice and shook with Alix for the drink.
"Here
for long, Mr. Wales?"
"I'm
here for four or five days to see my little girl."
"Oh-hl
You have a little girl?"
Outside,
the fire-red, gas-blue, ghost-green signs shone smokily
through
the tranquil rain. It was late afternoon and the streets were
in
movement ; the bistros gleamed. At the corner of the Boulevard
des
Capucines he took a taxi. The Place de la Concorde moved by in
pink
majesty; they crossed the logical Seine, and Charlie felt the
sudden
provincial quality of the left bank.
Charlie
directed his taxi to the Avenue de 1'Opera, which was out
of his
way. But he wanted to see the blue hour spread over the mag-
nificent
fagade, and imagine that the cab horns, playing endlessly
the first
few bars of Le Plus que Lent, were the trumpets of the Sec-
ond
Empire. They were closing the iron grill in front of Brentano's
Book-store,
and people were already at dinner behind the trim little
bourgeois
hedge of Duval's. He had never eaten at a really cheap
restaurant
in Paris. Five-course dinner, four francs fifty, eighteen
cents,
wine included. For some odd reason he wished that he had.
As they
rolled on to the Left Bank and he felt its sudden pro-
vincialism,
he thought, "I spoiled this city for myself. I didn't realize
it, but
the days came along one after another, and then two years
were
gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone."
He was
thirty-five, and good to look at. The Irish mobility of his
face was
sobered by a deep wrinkle between his eyes. As he rang his
brother-in-law's
bell in the Rue Palatine, the wrinkle deepened till it
pulled
down his brows; he felt a cramping sensation in his belly.
From
behind the maid who opened the door darted a lovely little
girl of
nine who shrieked "Daddy ! " and flew up, struggling like a
fish,
into his arms. She pulled his head around by one ear and set her
cheek
against his.
"My
old pie," he said.
"Oh,
daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, dads, dads, dads!"
She drew
him into the salon, where the family waited, a boy and a
girl his
daughter's age, his sister-in-law and her husband. He greeted
Marion
with his voice pitched carefully to avoid either feigned en-
thusiasm
or dislike, but her response was more frankly tepid, though
she
minimized her expression of unalterable distrust by directing her
regard
toward his child. The two men clasped hands in a friendly
way and
Lincoln Peters rested his for a moment on Charlie's
shoulder.
The room
was warm and comfortably American. The three chil-
dren
moved intimately about, playing through the yellow oblongs
that led
to other rooms; the cheer of six o'clock spoke in the eager
smacks of
the fire and the sounds of French activity in the kitchen.
But
Charlie did not relax ; his heart sat up rigidly in his body and
he drew
confidence from his daughter, who from time to time came
close to
him, holding in her arms the doll he had brought.
"Really
extremely well," he declared in answer to Lincoln's ques-
tion.
"There's a lot of business there that isn't moving at all, but
we're
doing even better than ever. In fact, damn well. I'm bringing
my sister
over from America next month to keep house for me. My
income
last year was bigger than it was when I had money. You see,
the
Czechs "
His
boasting was for a specific purpose ; but after a moment, see-
ing a
faint restiveness in Lincoln's eye, he changed the subject:
"Those
are fine children of yours, well brought up, good manners."
"We
think Honoria's a great little girl too."
Marion
Peters came back from the kitchen. She was a tall woman
with
worried eyes, who had once possessed a fresh American loveli-
ness.
Charlie had never been sensitive to it and was always surprised
when
people spoke of how pretty she had been. From the first there
had been
an instinctive antipathy between them.
"Well,
how do you find Honoria?" she asked.
"Wonderful.
I was astonished how much she's grown in ten
months.
All the children are looking well."
"We
haven't had a doctor for a year. How do you like being back
in Paris
?"
"It
seems very funny to see so few Americans around."
"I'm
delighted," Marion said vehemently. "Now at least you can
go into a
store without their assuming you're a millionaire. We've
suffered
like everybody, but on the whole it's a good deal pleasanter."
"But
it was nice while it lasted," Charlie said. "We were a sort of
royalty,
almost infallible, with a sort of magic around us. In the bar
this
afternoon" he stumbled, seeing his mistake "there wasn't a
man I
knew."
She
looked at him keenly. "I should think you'd have had enough,
of
bars."
"I
only stayed a minute. I take one drink every afternoon, and
no
more."
"Don't
you want a cocktail before dinner?" Lincoln asked.
"I
take only one drink every afternoon, and I've had that."
"I
hope you keep to it," said Marion.
Her
dislike was evident in the coldness with which she spoke, but
Charlie
only smiled; he had larger plans. Her very aggressiveness
gave him
an advantage, and he knew enough to wait. He wanted
them to
initiate the discussion of what they knew had brought him
to Paris.
At dinner
he couldn't decide whether Honoria was most like him
or her
mother. Fortunate if she didn't combine the traits of both that
had
brought them to disaster. A great wave of protectiveness went
over him.
He thought he knew what to do for her. He believed in
character
; he wanted to jump back a whole generation and trust in
character
again as the eternally valuable element. Everything else
wore out.
He left
soon after dinner, but not to go home. He was curious to
see Paris
by night with clearer and more judicious eyes than those
of other
days. He bought a strapontin for the Casino and watched
Josephine
Baker go through her chocolate arabesques.
After an
hour he left and strolled toward Montmartre, up the Rue
Pigalle
into the Place Blanche. The rain had stopped and there were
a few
people in evening clothes disembarking from taxis in front of
cabarets,
and cocottes prowling singly or in pairs, and many Negroes.
He passed
a lighted door from which issued music, and stopped with
the sense
of familiarity ; it was Bricktop's, where he had parted with
so many
hours and so much money. A few doors farther on he found
another
ancient rendezvous and incautiously put his head inside.
Immediately
an eager orchestra burst into sound, a pair of profes-
sional
dancers leaped to their feet and a maitre d 'hotel swooped
toward
him, crying, "Crowd just arriving, sir!" But he withdrew
quickly.
"You
have to be damn drunk," he thought.
Zelli's
was closed, the bleak and sinister cheap hotels surrounding
it were
dark; up in the Rue Blanche there was more light and a
local,
colloquial French crowd. The Poet's Cave had disappeared,
but the
two great mouths of the Caf6 of Heaven and the Caf6 of Hell
still
yawned even devoured, as he watched, the meager contents of
a tourist
bus a German, a Japanese, and an American couple who
glanced
at him with frightened eyes.
So much
for the effort and ingenuity of Montmartre. All the cater-
ing to
vice and waste was on an utterly childish scale, and he sud-
denly
realized the meaning of the word "dissipate" to dissipate into
thin air;
to make nothing out of something. In the little hours of
the night
every move from place to place was an enormous human
jump, an
increase of paying for the privilege of slower and slower
motion.
He
remembered thousand-franc notes given to an orchestra for
playing a
single number, hundred-franc notes tossed to a doorman
for
calling a cab.
But it
hadn't been given for nothing.
It had
been given, even the most wildly squandered sum, as an
offering
to destiny that he might not remember the things most worth
remembering,
the things that now he would always remember his
child
taken from his control, his wife escaped to a grave in Vermont.
In the
glare of a brasserie a woman spoke to him. He bought her
some eggs
and coffee, and then, eluding her encouraging stare, gave
her a
twenty-franc note and took a taxi to his hotel.
II
He woke
upon a fine fall day football weather. The depression of
yesterday
was gone and he liked the people on the streets. At noon
he sat
opposite Honoria at Le Grand Vatel, the only restaurant he
could
think of not reminiscent of champagne dinners and long
luncheons
that began at two and ended in a blurred and vague
twilight.
"Now,
how about vegetables? Oughtn't you to have some vege-
tables?"
"Well,
yes."
"Here's
ipinards and chou-fleur and carrots and haricots"
"I'd
like chou-fleur."
"Wouldn't
you like to have two vegetables?"
"I
usually only have one at lunch."
The
waiter was pretending to be inordinately fond of children.
"Qu'elle
est mignonne la petite I Elle parle exactement comme une
Fran$aise."
"How
about dessert? Shall we wait and see?"
The
waiter disappeared. Honoria looked at her father expectantly.
"What
are we going to do ?"
"First,
we're going to that toy store in the Rue Saint-Honor6 and
buy you
anything you like. And then we're going to the vaudeville
at the
Empire."
She
hesitated. "I like it about the vaudeville, but not the toy
store."
"Why
not?"
"Well,
you brought me this doll." She had it with her. "And I've
got lots
of things. And we're not rich any more, are we?"
"We
never were. But today you are to have anything you want."
"All
right," she agreed resignedly.
When
there had been her mother and a French nurse he had been
inclined
to be strict ; now he extended himself, reached out for a new
tolerance
; he must be both parents to her and not shut any of her
out of
communication.
"I
want to get to know you," he said gravely. "First let me intro-
duce
myself. My name is Charles J. Wales, of Prague."
"Oh,
daddy ! " her voice cracked with laughter.
"And
who are you, please?" he persisted, and she accepted a role
immediately:
"Honoria Wales, Rue Palatine, Paris."
"Married
or single?"
"No,
not married. Single."
He
indicated the doll. "But I see you have a child, madame."
Unwilling
to disinherit it, she took it to her heart and thought
quickly:
"Yes, I've been married, but I'm not married now. My
husband
is dead."
He went
on quickly, "And the child's name?"
"Simone.
That's after my best friend at school."
"I'm
very pleased that you're doing so well at school."
"I'm
third this month," she boasted. "Elsie" that was her cousin
"is
only about eighteenth, and Richard is about at the bottom."
"You
like Richard and Elsie, don't you?"
"Oh,
yes. I like Richard quite well and I like her all right."
Cautiously
and casually he asked : "And Aunt Marion and Uncle
Lincoln
which do you like best?"
"Oh,
Uncle Lincoln, I guess."
He was
increasingly aware of her presence. As they came in, a
murmur of
". . . adorable" followed them, and now the people at
the next
table bent all their silences upon her, staring as if she were
something
no more conscious than a flower.
"Why
don't I live with you?" she asked suddenly. "Because
mamma's
dead?"
"You
must stay here and learn more French. It would have been
hard for
daddy to take care of you so well."
"I
don't really need much taking care of any more. I do everything
for
myself."
Going out
of the restaurant, a man and a woman unexpectedly
hailed
him.
"Well,
the old Wales!"
"Hello
there, Lorraine. . . . Dune."
Sudden
ghosts out of the past: Duncan Schaeffer, a friend from
college.
Lorraine Quarries, a lovely, pale blonde of thirty ; one of a
crowd who
had helped them make months into days in the lavish
times of
three years ago.
"My
husband couldn't come this year," she said, in answer to his
question.
"We're poor as hell. So he gave me two hundred a month
and told
me I could do my worst on that. . . . This your little
girl?"
"What
about coming back and sitting down ?" Duncan asked.
"Can't
do it." He was glad for an excuse. As always, he felt Lor-
raine's
passionate, provocative attraction, but his own rhythm was
different
now.
"Well,
how about dinner?" she asked.
"I'm
not free. Give me your address and let me call you."
"Charlie,
I believe you're sober," she said judicially. "I honestly
believe
he's sober, Dune. Pinch him and see if he's sober."
Charlie
indicated Honoria with his head. They both laughed.
"What's
your address?" said Duncan skeptically.
He
hesitated, unwilling to give the name of his hotel.
"I'm
not settled yet. I'd better call you. We're going to see the
vaudeville
at the Empire."
"There
! That's what I want to do," Lorraine said. "I want to see
some
clowns and acrobats and jugglers. That's just what we'll do,
Dune."
"We've
got to do an errand first," said Charlie. "Perhaps we'll see
you
there."
"All
right, you snob. . . . Good-by, beautiful little girl."
"Good-by."
Honoria
bobbed politely.
Somehow,
an unwelcome encounter. They liked him because he
was
functioning, because he was serious; they wanted to see him,
because
he was stronger than they were now, because they wanted
to draw a
certain sustenance from his strength.
At the
Empire, Honoria proudly refused to sit upon her father's
folded
coat. She was already an individual with a code of her own,
and
Charlie was more and more absorbed by the desire of putting a
little of
himself into her before she crystallized utterly. It was hope-
less to
try to know her in so short a time.
Between
the acts they came upon Duncan and Lorraine in the
lobby
where the band was playing.
"Have
a drink?"
"All
right, but not up at the bar. Well take a table."
"The
perfect father."
Listening
abstractedly to Lorraine, Charlie watched Honoria's
eyes
leave their table, and he followed them wistfully about the
room,
wondering what they saw. He met her glance and she smiled.
"I
liked that lemonade," she said.
What had
she said ? What had he expected ? Going home in a taxi
afterward,
he pulled her over until her head rested against his chest.
"Darling,
do you ever think about your mother?"
"Yes,
sometimes," she answered vaguely.
"I
don't want you to forget her. Have you got a picture of her?"
"Yes,
I think so. Anyhow, Aunt Marion has.Why don't you want
me to
forget her?"
"She
loved you very much."
"I
loved her too."
They were
silent for a moment.
"Daddy,
I want to come and live with you," she said suddenly.
His heart
leaped ; he had wanted it to come like this.
"Aren't
you perfectly happy?"
"Yes,
but I love you better than anybody. And you love me better
than
anybody, don't you, now that mummy's dead?"
"Of
course I do. But you won't always like me best, honey. You'll
grow up
and meet somebody your own age and go marry him and
forget
you ever had a daddy."
"Yes,
that's true," she agreed trancpilly.
He didn't
go in. He was coming l&ack at nine o'clock and he
wanted to
keep himself fresh and new for the thing he must say then.
"When
you're safe inside, just show yourself in that window."
"All
right. Good-by, dads, dads, dads, dads."
He waited
in the dark street until she appeared, all warm and
glowing,
in the window above and kissed her fingers out into the
night.
Ill
They were
waiting. Marion sat behind the coffee service in a dig-
nified
black dinner dress that just faintly suggested mourning. Lin-
coln was
walking up and down with the animation of one who had
already
been talking. They were as anxious as he was to get into the
question.
He opened it almost immediately :
"I
suppose you know what I want to see you about why I really
came to
Paris."
Marion
played with the black stars on her necklace and frowned.
"I'm
awfully anxious to have a home," he continued. "And Fm
awfully
anxious to have Honoria in it. I appreciate your taking in
Honoria
for her mother's sake, but things have changed now" he
hesitated
and then continued more forcibly "changed radically with
me, and I
want to ask you to reconsider the matter. It would be silly
for me to
deny that about three years ago I was acting badly "
Marion
looked up at him with hard eyes.
"
but all that's over. As I told you, I haven't had more than a
drink a
day for over a year, and I take that drink deliberately, so
that the
idea of alcohol won't get too big in my imagination. You
see the
idea?"
"No,"
said Marion succinctly.
"It's
a sort of stunt I set myself. It keeps the matter in propor-
tion."
"I
get you," said Lincoln. "You don't want to admit it's got any
attraction
for you."
"Something
like that. Sometimes I forget and don't take it. But
I try to
take it. Anyhow, I couldn't afford to drink in my position.
The
people I represent are more than satisfied with what I've done,
and I'm
bringing my sister over from Burlington to keep house for
me, and I
want awfully to have Honoria too. You know that even
when her
mother and I weren't getting along well we never let any-
thing
that happened touch Honoria. I know she's fond of me and I
know I'm
able to take care of her and well, there you are. How do
you feel
about it?" f
He knew
that now he would have to take a beating. It would last
an hour
or two hours, and it would be difficult, but if he modulated
his
inevitable resentment to the chastened attitude of the reformed
sinner,
he might win his point in the end.
Keep your
temper, he told himself. You don't want to be justified.
You want
Honoria.
Lincoln
spoke first : "We've been talking it over ever since we got
your
letter last month. We're happy to have Honoria here. She's a
dear
little thing, and we're glad to be able to help her, but of course
that
isn't the question "
Marion
interrupted suddenly. "How long are you going to stay
sober,
Charlie?" she asked.
"Permanently,
I hope."
"How
can anybody count on that?"
"You
know I never did drink heavily until I gave up business and
came over
here with nothing to do. Then Helen and I began to run
around
with "
"Please
leave Helen out of it. I can't bear to hear you talk about
her like
that."
He stared
at her grimly ; he had never been certain how fond of
each
other the sisters were in life.
"My
drinking only lasted about a year and a half from the time
we came
over until I collapsed."
"It
was time enough."
"It
was time enough," he agreed.
"My
duty is entirely to Helen," she said. "I try to think what
she would
have wanted me to do. Frankly, from the night you did
that
terrible thing you haven't really existed for me. I can't help
that. She
was my sister."
"Yes."
"When
she was dying she asked me to look out for Honoria. If
you
hadn't been in a sanitarium then, it might have helped
matters."
He had no
answer.
"I'll
never in my life be able to forget the morning when Helen
knocked
at my door, soaked to the skin and shivering and said you'd
locked
her out."
Charlie
gripped the sides of the chair. This was more difficult than
he
expected ; he wanted to launch out into a long expostulation and
explanation,
but he only said : "The night I locked her out " and
she
interrupted, "I don't feel up to going over that again."
After a
moment's silence Lincoln said : "We're getting off the sub-
ject. You
want Marion to set aside her legal guardianship and give
you
Honoria. I think the main point for her is whether she has con-
fidence
in you or not."
"I
don't blame Marion," Charlie said slowly, "but I think she
can have
entire confidence in me. I had a good record up to three
years
ago. Of course, it's within human possibilities I might go
wrong any
time. But if we wait much longer I'll lose Honoria's child-
hood and
my chance for a home." He shook his head, "I'll simply
lose her,
don't you see?"
"Yes,
I see," said Lincoln.
"Why
didn't you think of all this before?" Marion asked.
"I
suppose I did, from time to time, but Helen and I were getting
along
badly. When I consented to the guardianship, I was flat on
my back
in a sanitarium and the market had cleaned me out. I
knew I'd
acted badly, and I thought if it would bring any peace to
Helen,
I'd agree to anything. But now it's different. I'm functioning,
I'm
behaving damn well, so far as "
"Please
don't swear at me/' Marion said.
He looked
at her, startled. With each remark the force of her dis-
like
became more and more apparent. She had built up all her fear
of life
into one wall and faced it toward him. This trivial reproof
was
possibly the result of some trouble with the cook several hours
before.
Charlie became increasingly alarmed at leaving Honoria in
this
atmosphere of hostility against himself; sooner or later it
would
come out, in a word here, a shake of the head there, and
some of
that distrust would be irrevocably implanted in Honoria.
But he
pulled his temper down out of his face and shut it up inside
him; he
had won a point, for Lincoln realized the absurdity of
Marion's
remark and asked her lightly since when she had objected
to the
word "damn."
"Another
thing," Charlie said: "Fm able to give her certain ad-
vantages
now. I'm going to take a French governess to Prague with
me. Fve
got a lease on a new apartment "
He
stopped, realizing that he was blundering. They couldn't be
expected
to accept with equanimity the fact that his income was
again
twice as large as their own.
"I
suppose you can give her more luxuries than we can," said
Marion.
"When you were throwing away money we were living
along
watching every ten francs. ... I suppose you'll start doing
it
again."
"Oh,
no," he said. "Fve learned. I worked hard for ten years, you
know
until I got lucky in the market, like so many people. Terribly
lucky. It
won't happen again."
There was
a long silence. All of them felt their nerves straining,
and for
the first time in a year Charlie wanted a drink. He was sure
now that
Lincoln Peters wanted him to have his child.
Marion
shuddered suddenly; part of her saw that Charlie's feet
were
planted on the earth now, and her own maternal feeling recog-
nized the
naturalness of his desire ; but she had lived for a long time
with a
prejudice a prejudice founded on a curious disbelief in her
sister's
happiness, and which, in the shock of one terrible night, had
turned to
hatred for him. It had all happened at a point in her life
where the
discouragement of ill health and adverse circumstances
made it
necessary for her to believe in tangible villainy and a
tangible
villain.
"I
can't help what I think!" she cried out suddenly. "How much
you were
responsible for Helen's death, I don't know. It's something
you'll
have to square with your own conscience."
An
electric current of agony surged through him ; for a moment
he was almost
on his feet, an unuttered sound echoing in his throat.
He hung
on to himself for a moment, another moment.
"Hold
on there," said Lincoln uncomfortably. "I never thought
you were
responsible for that."
"Helen
died of heart trouble," Charlie said dully.
"Yes,
heart trouble." Marion spoke as if the phrase had another
meaning
for her.
Then, in
the flatness that followed her outburst, she saw him
plainly
and she knew he had somehow arrived at control over the
situation.
Glancing at her husband, she found no help from him, and
as
abruptly as if it were a matter of no importance, she threw up the
sponge.
"Do
what you like ! " she cried, springing up from her chair. "She's
your
child. I'm not the person to stand in your way. I think if it
were my
child I'd rather see her " She managed to check herself.
"You
two decide it. I can't stand this. I'm sick. I'm going to bed."
She
hurried from the room ; after a moment Lincoln said :
"This
has been a hard day for her. You know how strongly she
feels
" His voice was almost apologetic : "When a woman gets an
idea in
her head."
"Of
course."
"It's
going to be all right. I think she sees now that you can
provide
for the child, and so we can't very well stand in your way or
Honoria's
way."
"Thank
you, Lincoln."
"I'd
better go along and see how she is."
"I'm
going."
He was
still trembling when he reached the street, but a walk
down the
Rue Bonaparte to the quais set him up, and as he crossed
the
Seine, fresh and new by the quai lamps, he felt exultant. But
back in
his room he couldn't sleep. The image of Helen haunted
him.
Helen whom he had loved so until they had senselessly begun
to abuse
each other's love, tear it into shreds. On that terrible Feb-
ruary
night that Marion remembered so vividly, a slow quarrel had
gone on
for hours. There was a scene at the Florida, and then he
attempted
to take her home, and then she kissed young Webb at a
table;
after that there was what she had hysterically said. When
he
arrived home alone he turned the key in the lock in wild anger.
How could
he know she would arrive an hour later alone, that there
would be
a snowstorm in which she wandered about in slippers, too
confused
to find a taxi? Then the aftermath, her escaping pneu-
monia by
a miracle, and all the attendant horror. They were "recon-
ciled,"
but that was the beginning of the end, and Marion, who had
seen with
her own eyes and who imagined it to be one of many
scenes
from her sister's martyrdom, never forgot.
Going
over it again brought Helen nearer, and in the white, soft
light
that steals upon half sleep near morning he found himself talk-
ing to
her again. She said that he was perfectly right about Honoria
and that
she wanted Honoria to be with him. She said she was glad
he was
being good and doing better. She said a lot of other things
very
friendly things but she was in a swing in a white dress, and
swinging
faster and faster all the time, so that at the end he could
not hear
clearly all that she said.
IV
He woke
up feeling happy. The door of the world was open again.
He made
plans, vistas, futures for Honoria and himself, but suddenly
he grew
sad, remembering all the plans he and Helen had made.
She had
not planned to die. The present was the thing work to do
and
someone to love. But not to love too much, for he knew the injury
that a
father can do to a daughter or a mother to a son by attaching
them too
closely : afterward, out in the world, the child would seek
in the
marriage partner the same blind tenderness and, failing
probably
to find it, turn against love and life.
It was
another bright, crisp day. He called Lincoln Peters at the
bank
where he worked and asked if he could count on taking Honoria
when he
left for Prague. Lincoln agreed that there was no reason for
delay.
One thing the legal guardianship. Marion wanted to retain
that a
while longer. She was upset by the whole matter, and it would
oil
things if she felt that the situation was still in her control for
another
year. Charlie agreed, wanting only the tangible, visible child.
Then the
question of a governess. Charles sat in a gloomy agency
and
talked to a cross Bearnaise and to a buxom Breton peasant,
neither
of whom he could have endured. There were others whom he
would see
tomorrow.
He
lunched with Lincoln Peters at Griffons, trying to keep down
his
exultation.
"There's
nothing quite like your own child," Lincoln said. "But
you
understand how Marion feels too."
"She's
forgotten how hard I worked for seven years there," Charlie
said.
"She just remembers one night."
"There's
another thing." Lincoln hesitated. "While you and Helen
were
tearing around Europe throwing money away, we were just
getting
along. I didn't touch any of the prosperity because I never
got ahead
enough to carry anything but my insurance. I think
Marion
felt there was some kind of injustice in it you not even
working
toward the end, and getting richer and richer."
"It
went just as quick as it came," said Charlie.
"Yes,
a lot of it stayed in the hands of chasseurs and saxophone
players
and maitres dTiotel well, the big party's over now. I just
said that
to explain Marion's feeling about those crazy years. If you
drop in
about six o'clock tonight before Marion's too tired, we'll
settle
the details on the spot."
Back at
his hotel, Charlie found a pneumatique that had been re-
directed
from the Ritz bar where Charlie had left his address for
the
purpose of finding a certain man.
"DEAR
CHARLIE : You were so strange when we saw you the other
day that
I wondered if I did something to offend you. If so, I'm not
conscious
of it. In fact, I have thought about you too much for the
last
year, and it's always been in the back of my mind that I might
see you
if I came over here. We did have such good times that crazy
spring,
like the night you and I stole the butcher's tricycle, and the
time we
tried to call on the president and you had the old derby rim
and the
wire cane. Everybody seems so old lately, but I don't feel
old a
bit. Couldn't we get together some time today for old time's
sake?
I've got a vile hang-over for the moment, but will be feeling
better
this afternoon and will look for you about five in the sweat-
shop at
the Ritz.
"Always
devotedly,
"LORRAINE."
His first
feeling was one of awe that he had actually, in his
mature
years, stolen a tricycle and pedaled Lorraine all over the
toile
between the small hours and dawn. In retrospect it was a
nightmare.
Locking out Helen didn't fit in with any other act of his
life, but
the tricycle incident did it was one of many. How many
weeks or
months of dissipation to arrive at that condition of utter
irresponsibility
?
He tried
to picture how Lorraine had appeared to him then very
attractive;
Helen was unhappy about it, though she said nothing.
Yesterday,
in the restaurant, Lorraine had seemed trite, blurred,
worn
away. He emphatically did not want to see her, and he was
glad Alix
had not given away his hotel address. It was a relief to
think,
instead, of Honoria, to think of Sundays spent with her and of
saying
good morning to her and of knowing she was there in his
house at
night, drawing her breath in the darkness.
At five
he took a taxi and bought presents for all the Peters a
piquant
cloth doll, a box of Roman soldiers, flowers for Marion, big
linen
handkerchiefs for Lincoln.
He saw,
when he arrived in the apartment, that Marion had
accepted
the inevitable. She greeted him now as though he were a
recalcitrant
member of the family, rather than a menacing outsider.
Honoria
had been told she was going ; Charlie was glad to see that
her tact
made her conceal her excessive happiness. Only on his lap
did she
whisper her delight and the question "When?" before she
slipped
away with the other children.
He and
Marion were alone for a minute in the room, and on an
impulse
he spoke out boldly :
"Family
quarrels are bitter things. They don't go according to any
rules.
They 're not like aches or wounds ; they're more like splits in
the skin
that won't heal because there's not enough material. I wish
you and I
could be on better terms."
"Some
things are hard to forget," she answered. "It's a question
of confidence."
There was no answer to this and presently she asked,
"When
do you propose to take her?"
"As
soon as I can get a governess. I hoped the day after to-
morrow."
"That's
impossible. I've got to get her things in shape. Not before
Saturday."
He yielded.
Coming back into the room, Lincoln offered him a
drink.
"I'll
take my daily whisky," he said.
It was
warm here, it was a home, people together by a fire. The
children
felt very safe and important ; the mother and father were
serious,
watchful. They had things to do for the children more im-
portant
than his visit here. A spoonful of medicine was, after all,
more
important than the strained relations between Marion and
himself.
They were not dull people, but they were very much in the
grip of
life and circumstances. He wondered if he couldn't do some-
thing to
get Lincoln out of his rut at the bank.
A long
peal at the door-bell ; the bonne d tout faire passed through
and went
down the corridor. The door opened upon another long
ring, and
then voices, and the three in the salon looked up expect-
antly;
Richard moved to bring the corridor within his range of
vision,
and Marion rose. Then the maid came back along the corridor,
closely
followed by the voices, which developed under the light into
Duncan
Schaeffer and Lorraine Quarries.
They were
gay, they were hilarious, they were roaring with laugh-
ter. For
a moment Charlie was astounded ; unable to understand how
they
ferreted out the Peters' address.
"Ah-h-h!"
Duncan wagged his finger roguishly at Charlie.
"Ah-h-h!"
They both
slid down another cascade of laughter. Anxious and at
a loss,
Charlie shook hands with them quickly and presented them
to
Lincoln and Marion. Marion nodded, scarcely speaking. She had
drawn
back a step toward the fire ; her little girl stood beside her,
and
Marion put an arm about her shoulder.
With
growing annoyance at the intrusion, Charlie waited for
them to
explain themselves. After some concentration Duncan said :
"We
came to invite you out to dinner. Lorraine and I insist that
all this
shishi, cagy business 'bout your address got to stop."
Charlie
came closer to them, as if to force them backward down
the
corridor.
"Sorry,
but I can't. Tell me where you'll be and 111 phone you in
half an
hour."
This made
no impression. Lorraine sat down suddenly on the side
of a
chair, and focusing her eyes on Richard, cried, "Oh, what a nice
little
boy I Come here, little boy." Richard glanced at his mother,
but did
not move. With a perceptible shrug of her shoulders, Lor-
raine
turned back to Charlie :
"Come
and dine. Sure your cousins won' mine. See you so sel'om.
Or
solemn."
"I
can't," said Charlie sharply. "You two have dinner and I'll
phone
you."
Her voice
became suddenly unpleasant. "All right, we'll go. But I
remember
once when you hammered on my door at four A.M. I was
enough of
a good sport to give you a drink. Come on, Dune."
Still in
slow motion, with blurred, angry faces, with uncertain feet,
they
retired along the corridor.
"Good
night," Charlie said.
"Good
night 1" responded Lorraine emphatically.
When he
went back into the salon Marion had not moved, only
now her
son was standing in the circle of her other arm. Lincoln
was still
swinging Honoria back and forth like a pendulum from side
to side.
"What
an outrage!" Charlie broke out. "What an absolute out-
rage!"
Neither
of them answered. Charlie dropped into an armchair,
picked up
his drink, set it down again and said :
"People
I haven't seen for two years having the colossal nerve "
He broke
off. Marion had made the sound "Oh!" in one swift,
furious
breath, turned her body from him with a jerk and left the
room.
Lincoln
set down Honoria carefully.
"You
children go in and start your soup," he said, and when they
obeyed,
he said to Charlie:
"Marion's
not well and she can't stand shocks. That kind of peo-
ple make
her really physically sick."
"I
didn't tell them to come here. They wormed your name out of
somebody.
They deliberately "
"Well,
it's teo bad. It doesn't help matters. Excuse me a minute."
Left
alone, Charlie sat tense in his chair. In the next room he
could
hear the children eating, talking in monosyllables, already ob-
livious
to the scene between their elders. He heard a murmur of con-
versation
from a farther room and then the ticking bell of a tele-
phone
receiver picked up, and in a panic he moved to the other side
of the
room and out of earshot.
In a
minute Lincoln came back. "Look here, Charlie. I think we'd
better
call off dinner for tonight. Marion's in bad shape."
"Is
she angry with me?"
"Sort
of," he said, almost roughly. "She's not strong and "
"You
mean she's changed her mind about Honoria?"
"She's
pretty bitter right now. I don't know. You phone me at the
bank
tomorrow."
"I
wish you'd explain to her I never dreamed these people would
come
here. I'm just as sore as you are."
"I
couldn't explain anything to her now."
Charlie
got up. He took his coat and hat and started down the
corridor.
Then he opened the door of the dining room and said in
a strange
voice, "Good night, children."
Honoria
rose and ran around the table to hug him.
"Good
night, sweetheart," he said vaguely, and then trying to
make his
voice more tender, trying to conciliate something, "Good
night,
dear children."
Charlie
went directly to the Ritz bar with the furious idea of find-
ing
Lorraine and Duncan, but they were not there, and he realized
that in
any case there was nothing he could do. He had not touched
his drink
at the Peters, and now he ordered a whisky-and-soda. Paul
came over
to say hello.
"It's
a great change," he said sadly. "We do about half the busi-
ness we
did. So many fellows I hear about back in the States lost
everything,
maybe not in the first crash, but then in the second. Your
friend
George Hardt lost every cent, I hear. Are you back in the
States?"
"No,
I'm in business in Prague."
"I
heard that you lost a lot in the crash."
"I
did," and he added grimly, "but I lost everything I wanted in
the
boom."
"Selling
short."
"Something
like that."
Again the
memory of those days swept over him like a nightmare
the
people they had met travelling ; then people who couldn't add a
row of
figures or speak a coherent sentence. The little man Helen
had
consented to dance with at the ship's party, who had insulted
her ten
feet from the table ; the women and girls carried screaming
with
drink or drugs out of public places
The men
who locked their wives out in the snow, because the
snow of
twenty-nine wasn't real snow. If you didn't want it to be
snow, you
just paid some money.
He went
to the phone and called the Peters' apartment ; Lincoln
answered.
"I
called up because this thing is on my mind. Has Marion said
anything
definite?"
"Marion's
sick," Lincoln answered shortly. "I know this thing
isn't
altogether your fault, but I can't have her go to pieces about
it. I'm
afraid we'll have to let it slide for six months ; I can't take
the
chance of working her up to this state again."
"I
see."
"I'm
sorry, Charlie."
He went
back to his table. His whisky glass was empty, but he
shook his
head when Alix looked at it questioningly. There wasn't
much he
could do now except send Honoria some things ; he would
send her
a lot of things tomorrow. He thought rather angrily that
this was
just money he had given so many people money. . . .
"No,
no more," he said to another waiter. "What do I owe you?"
He would
come back some day ; they couldn't make him pay for-
ever. But
he wanted his child, and nothing was much good now,
beside
that fact. He wasn't young any more, with a lot of nice
thoughts
and dreams to have by himself. He was absolutely sure
Helen
wouldn't have wanted him to be so alone.
