2
The wreckers were at work tearing down the Steele house. Floyd, passing, found Martin in overalls, his hair, face, eyelashes, white with plaster dust, his tongue swinging with the hammer.
“You obstinate devil, I’ll show you who is the master.”
The wall was well built, too well; in the old days they built for the future. He gave it a blow, another, another; it didn’t yield. He worked himself into a purple rage. Blow after blow fell upon the unhappy partition; it trembled, the others jumped away; it fell. Martin stood triumphantly among the ruins.
Floyd’s eyes grew moist. Was there no feeling in the man? Did he realize he had made himself homeless? Now he must join the rich tramps, the poor tramps, that army of wanderers living here awhile, there awhile, places to sleep and eat; luxurious, tawdry, squalid imitations, according to their money value. New York was becoming a homeless city.
He related the incident to Julie.
“Martin looks seedy, he neglects his appearance, he’s a forsaken wretch.”
Julie had a sudden inspiration.
“I’m going to get him married.”
Floyd laughed.
“It takes two for that.”
Julie stood before her mirror; a pleasing picture flashed back. A smooth young face—not a trace of the physical agony she had been through, of the mental agony; her life was running now along smooth, conventional lines—a beautiful woman, bending forward, studying her expression. Is there a tell-tale line? No; the mask fits to the life.
“May I come in?”
It was Maud Ailsworth invited to dinner to meet Martin. Julie was going to see what she could do. Maud’s mother had been dead four years; she had known her only as an invalid propped up by pillows, with an ice bag on her head. Maud left school early to take the housekeeping, which was a sorry job, in her hands. Mrs. Ailsworth’s philosophy of living was that good things were cheapest in the end. The modest capital left by her husband melted, they sold the house, and lived on the money. When Mrs. Ailsworth died, Maud had five thousand dollars. She took a room on the top floor rear of a fashionable hotel, and spent her time looking for a husband. She wanted a nice man, she would wait another year; and then—there was always Tom Dillon. She didn’t have to act with him. He knew she was a beggar, she knew he was a rotter; but she wouldn’t do it until her last penny was gone. She still had hopes of someone better. She was pretty, quick with an answer, and much liked by men, but—they didn’t marry her.
“Why?”
She asked herself that question many a night, after a party, where the men went the limit. There she stopped; the other girls jumped the boundaries. She wondered if that was why she was single at twenty-five. Well, she couldn’t; it wasn’t her virtue, it was her misfortune.
She noticed at a first glance how much prettier Julie had become, but she didn’t compliment her. It wasn’t her way.
“You have had a hard time, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but it’s worth all I suffered.”
Maud’s nostrils expanded, taking in the subtle essence of violet powder.
“Oh! I smell the baby.”
She flew to the crib and took the child in her arms.
“You handle it like a grandmother!” cried Julie. “Why don’t you get married?”
Maud laughed mirthlessly.
“Why? Because the only man I really want won’t ask me; it’s your fault, Julie—one wasn’t enough for you.”
“How can you say that?”
“What are you going to do with the other?” insisted Maud.
Julie answered with a touch of seriousness.
“I am going to get him for you, if I can. Do you like him?”
Maud spoke slowly, weighing her words.
“Liking is too neutral for Martin Steele; it is either love or hate; I think I hate him.” She gave a quick glance into the mirror as they went down to dinner.
The men were waiting in the parlor. Martin was ill at ease; he felt like a waiter in evening dress. Floyd wore it differently; he melted into it. Maud as the guest of honor was charming. All laughed heartily at her frank admissions, and keen enjoyment of the fruits so long forbidden.
“We’ve got a free hand. Politically, economically; the right to work—”
“You can have it,” interrupted Martin. “I’ll give you my share.”
“But we want more—Moral Equality.”
“Isn’t that a step backward?” said Floyd. “Until now, women were supposed to be morally superior to men.”
“Why should they be? Equal rights is all we want. We are no longer going to be ‘cast out’ for acting naturally.”
Martin took up the gauntlet.
“You mean you want to have children without being married?”
Maud’s eyes shot defiance.
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Haven’t you taken that privilege?”
“I? Not yet, but I don’t know what I may do.”
It was getting too personal, Julie arose from the table. Floyd lingered with Martin.
“She doesn’t mean a word of all that. She’s a fine woman; she’ll make a good wife and mother.”
Martin blew rings of smoke into the air.
“I’m quite sure she will, but I’m not interested.”
Maud was curled up in an armchair by the fire, one leg under her, the other hanging down; she was smoking a cigarette in a gold-mounted amber holder.
Julie put her arm in Floyd’s.
“Let’s go and say good night to baby.”
Martin smiled at her transparent subterfuge. He looked down at Maud; a well-shaped head, correct features, eyes curious; the black stuff she used gave them the requisite look of the demi-mondaine. The glass beads around her neck were cheap; what there was of the gown was evidently designed and put together by herself. Her thin silk stockings were going in the seams; he was sure there were holes in the feet. He’d like to dress her well. Yes, she was a nice girl; he could easily be single with her for six months—but marriage?
Julie’s laugh rang out upstairs. Maud was conscious of being checked up.
“Well, what’s the verdict?”
“Will you let me say what I think?”
“Yes, if you let me do the same.”
“You will say more than you believe, I less.”
There was something fascinating in the fellow’s insolence.
“Legs, neck, shoulders, bust, perfect; the symmetry of thighs and limbs—classic; but you leave me cold.”
“Why?” She bent over with a touch of eagerness.
“Because there is nothing of mystery about you.”
“Ha, ha; why should a woman be a mystery?”
Then came a flash which revealed depths unsounded.
“Because all holy things are mysterious; when a woman ceases to be holy to man, she kills love in him.”
Maud wouldn’t argue on those lines.
“Other men don’t think so.”
“They do. Have you ever been inside the Museum of Art in Central Park?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve been to the receptions.”
“Will you come with me to see the pictures and statues?”
“I’ll go anywhere with you.”
He sat on the arm of her chair.
“You will find in some of the mutilated Grecian goddesses the same length of limbs and lines of body; but they are modestly undraped—”
“Stop. I don’t like that expression; I believe in leaving something to the imagination.”
“A man’s imagination in that respect is a vile thing.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“Think of it that way, will you?”
“Yes.”
It slipped out; she was sorry at once, but she didn’t recall it.
“When I look at the girl of today, I feel that I am passing with the rest of the crowd before those wonderful marble statues, which belong to everyone, to no one.”
She was on her feet now blazing at him.
“How dare you demand purity in us? Set the example; we’ll follow suit. We give what we receive; no more, no less.”
She made a rush for the door. He caught her two arms.
“You women! You women! You prate equality; you’d hate like the devil to have it. You know you’ve got the best of us.” Martin’s voice rang out; it was always too loud when he was excited. “The woman of today is gambling with every chance against her; if she wins, she loses; she’ll get everything she wants, even sexual equality; and when she has it, she’ll lose the glory of Life for the human race. Look at me. I’m the average man, no better, no worse; and the most miserable, lonely wretch that ever walked in a city overcrowded with beautiful women. I would marry any one of them—high, low, rich, poor, if she would give me the love I’m craving for. Tell me the truth now: can you love anybody but yourself?”
She tried to extricate herself from his iron grasp, his accusing eyes.
“Don’t, don’t! You hurt me.”
He released her with a bitter laugh.
When Julie came in, Maud was hysterical. Martin must have been saying something awful.
“Miss Ailsworth’s car.”
“Oh! Have you a car?” exclaimed Julie.
“It belongs to Tom Dillon; he wants me to keep his chauffeur busy.” She was herself again, saucy, reckless, unthinking.
Martin bent over her, speaking in low tones.
“I’ll go home with you; we’ll make up on the way.”
She knew what he meant—she’d show him—he couldn’t love her for the moment.
“I don’t want you; a man’s escort is not a guarantee of safety.”
She kissed Julie and swept out, followed by Floyd. He stood at the door of the car; there was something wrong with Maud. He thought he saw tears in her eyes. He jumped into the car and went home with her. Julie was at the window as they drove off.
“Oh! Floyd’s gone with her. He’s so old-fashioned; he hates to see women roaming about alone at night; he won’t be long.”
She pulled down the blinds, put out the lights, leaving only the candles and the glow of the fire.
Martin stood watching her. She began to feel uncomfortable. Why didn’t he say something? She was afraid of his silence.
“Maud’s a nice girl, and very popular. I wonder why she doesn’t marry.”
He answered roughly.
“I’m not going to marry her; drop that idea, will you.”
He came close to her, leaning against the side-board.
“You’re disappointed?”
“I? Oh, no.”
“Confess.” He put his hand under her chin, and forced her to look at him. “You want to get rid of me?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Why? Tell me!”
In the half light, her face was like ivory. Her eyes shone back into his. He started, and put his hand on her shoulder; what was it he saw there? She came closer to him, closer; he dared not move. She kissed him again, again, murmuring soft love words. Then he broke out, held her as if he would never let her go, calling her his beautiful Queen, his Oriental Pearl, his Song of Songs. She clung to him, her body responding to his; how long?—a moment, which goes back centuries, a century which is only a moment. He felt her tears on his face, as she caressed and kissed him; every drop of blood in him answered.
“I wanted you always. You know it—you know it. I thought the longing would wear away with time; my mother said it would. I believed her; but she lied to me, lied! It was always there, getting more and more unbearable.”
Martin closed her lips with a long kiss. This wonderful tempting, seductive creature; he would never let her go.
“I wanted you to marry Maud to save myself. When I saw you with her tonight, the pain was unbearable. I couldn’t go on—I couldn’t.” Then she drew away from him, and went over to the fire, her hands clasped together, her face convulsed; the red light enveloped her.
He came to her. She put out her hand to keep him back.
“Now it’s over.”
“Over?” How little she knew him.
“This is the end.”
“No, it is only the beginning. You were mine; I never forgot, never. They stole you from me; nothing can part us now. Nothing!”
She was in his arms again.
“It had to come, or I should have lost my reason; it’s over now. Go, before he comes back.”
She slipped away from him. He went out. She groped toward the door; where was it? She was blind; then she fell.