The Golden Vanity (32 page)

Mrs. Siddall listened with an expression of detached comprehension. It puzzled Sam, when he stopped for breath. He had seen that expression before—but where, when?

"Oh, Arthur's magazine?" she said, after a long pause. "How can you tell it is a Communist magazine? I didn't know anyone could read it. I tried to, once. They have fifteen hundred subscribers. Does it matter what they call it?" She glanced at her black dress.

"By gum, Charlotte, you've hit it; what does it matter, when we're being run by politicians who've always lived on inherited incomes and intellectual ambulance chasers on endowed salaries out to do us good? They've got ten million voters on the payroll already. . . . You want me to go over this stuff for you?"

"Yes, I'll see you to-morrow, perhaps," she said. "Of course, I can't trust you, Sam—that's an advantage." The gleam of humor was an echo of her father's manner of speech.

Sam thought, Charlotte was the best of the lot. She took it on the chin. Not like most of the hen-brained rich women his wife cultivated so assiduously. He had barged into a bridge party at home last Saturday, and one old cluck was saying we ought to have a Mussolini. He told her that if she needed a dose of castor oil, she could get it at the corner drugstore. His wife said he was a low brute.

Mrs. Siddall wondered remotely at her own tranquillity. The heavy sense of age had lifted; there was a faint singing in her head, not troublesome. ... As the car progressed up Fifth Avenue, she found herself thinking back —the Martins' house used to stand there, on the site of that department store; and the Pearsons' there, where the closed bank stands; even the Public Library was a "new" building to her; it used to be the reservoir. The Union League Club—ladies were not supposed to lift their eyes to the windows as they passed. On Sundays after church one drove up the street in a victoria, bowing right and left to acquaintances. . . . There was one remaining landmark. Mrs. Siddall took up the speaking tube. "Raymond, stop here at the Helders'."

It was a huge but undistinguished house in Italian Renaissance style, with barred lower windows and a bronze door. The footman recognized her, bowed her in. "I think Mrs. Helder is out, madam; I will enquire." "I wish to see Mr. Helder senior; thank you, I know the way." The footman appeared uncertain, as she walked past him; he did not know how to prevent her. The east wing. ... A valet-nurse interposed ineffectually. "Good morning, Morrison; how is Mr. Helder?" "Not so well, ma'am." . . . She advanced; the immovable body gave way to the irresistible force.

Wyman Helder senior sat in a wheel-chair, with a rug spread across his knees. He had been a stout man, deep-chested and bull-necked, with bushy black eyebrows; but he was stricken in years, shrunken, his broad shoulders bowed, his jowls pendant and the ridge of his nose bleak. The bones showed in the backs of his hands. He shut the sliding drawer of a cabinet beside his chair.

The room was sound-proof as well as burglar-proof. No rumor of the world's traffic and disorder could penetrate. A dozen famous paintings spaced the walls, among them a Holbein, a Rembrandt, a Velasquez, acquired at fabulous prices. There were also a small set of tapestries, Diana at the chase, reputed to be from Chenonceaux; and vitrines containing rare examples of enamel and goldsmith's work: jeweled reliquaries, covered cups of state, a Golden Rose presented to a queen by a pope, a salt cellar credited to Cellini, wrought in an elaborate and rather ugly design representing Venus on a shell, borne by Tritons. It was a private museum, a treasure chest.

"How are you, Wyman?" Mrs. Siddall had a moment's misgiving; the old man glared at her with defensive annoyance, quickly mollified into a formal welcome. But she thought his wits must be wandering; he said to the valet: "Give Dayrolles a chair." He was tolerably well-read; more so than Mrs. Siddall. "Sit down, Charlotte," he added. "Is Evelyn giving a reception?" He referred to his daughter-in-law. "No," Mrs. Siddall explained, "I was passing and it occurred to me—" "Umph," he grunted, and a gleam of distrust came into his sunken eyes. "They keep things from me. The newspapers. Pretend they forget. I don't forget." Mrs. Siddall was uncomfortably conscious of the valet-nurse hovering in the background, obviously wishing her away. And the fleeting changes in Helder's features, almost imperceptible, were like the shiftings of a mask, sly and cunning. "I had a talk with Mr. Dickerson this afternoon," Mrs. Siddall approached tentatively the object of her call.

"Oh, Julius." Helder grunted again. He was fingering a handful of coins on his lap-robe, specimens from his collection, Mrs. Siddall assumed. Silver coins. "They all talked too much," he said. "Got to believing themselves. The New Era. In my time—" His hands twitched, and several coins rolled to the floor. He made a convulsive, ineffectual effort to catch them, and uttered a whimpering noise. He seemed to disintegrate. The valet sprang forward, and Mrs. Siddall instinctively helped to pick up the bits of silver. She noticed, with astonishment, that what she had retrieved was an ordinary quarter dollar. The valet had two dimes. "Give them to him, madam," the valet muttered urgently. "He has an idea . . ." The valet laid the coins on the old man's lap, and he clutched them feebly. "There isn't any more money," Helder said in a hoarse whisper. "There isn't any more money."

Mrs. Siddall fled. In the anteroom, she came to herself; the valet had followed her and was saying: "Excuse me, madam" ... She said: "Thank you, Morrison; by the way, you need not mention my call to anyone else; I think I had better not wait for Mrs. Helder." "Thank you, madam." The valet was more than thankful to avoid any such mention.

The incessant and varied stream of life along the Avenue struck Mrs. Siddall with fresh force as she emerged from the guarded house. People going about their own affairs, busy, anxious, gay, indifferent. She was carried along with them. Energy flowed into her.

At her own door she stepped out of the car firmly. She felt as if she had been away a long time, a great distance. The butler opened the door. She enquired: "Arkright, will you see if Mr. Siddall is at home?" The butler took up the house telephone connecting the two houses. "No, madam; he is expected to return shortly." "Very well, say I should be glad if he would come over when he does return." She hesitated, and then went through the party corridor into the other house, and upstairs. A housemaid, seeing her enter the empty nursery, was touched by a sincere impulse of sympathy. Benjy had been such a darling little boy, laughing and affectionate. The house did seem mournful without him; and Mr. Siddall looked as if he'd never get over it.

The nursery was sunny and still and desolately tidy. Toy cupboards shut, the bed made, rugs spread straight. Only the rag doll, Lucy, sat uprightly limp in a small chair. Benjy's nurse, bringing back his things from the country, had placed it there, a pitiful act of piety. Mrs. Siddall picked it up. Careless of observation, she carried it back to her own house. Her maid, Trudi, was shaken out of a lifetime's training.
"Herr je!"
she exclaimed. Mrs. Siddall dismissed her: "I shan't need you for awhile, Trudi."

Left alone, Mrs. Siddall sat for awhile holding the calico doll. She shook her head; there were tears in her eyes.

She took up her patience cards, and laid them out. The first game failed. She shuffled, cut, started again. There, it was going very well. That singing in her head . . . But her mind was remarkably clear, and her eyes; she saw the cards through brightness. A knock—that was Arthur. "Come in. One moment, my dear, I believe I have it." Looking down again, she saw her hand moving more slowly, stopping. She said: "Why, what—I can't—"

She never spoke again. The doctor, arriving too late, said that at her age the first stroke was sometimes fatal. She must have had a shock. He said consolingly that she had not suffered. Lying in her coffin, she looked dignified and kind; the last trace of haughtiness was wiped away.

25

A
FTER
the probate of Mrs. Siddall's will, Arthur spent his days at the estate office with lawyers and managers. At the end of a month he could not determine whether he had inherited a vast fortune or a handsome deficit. He asked the question bluntly and the executors didn't know either. The lowest valuation of the Siddall Building and the two big houses would call for an inheritance tax that would eat up practically all the quick assets; and a sale would involve an equally disastrous sacrifice, assuming that purchasers could be found, which was highly improbable. It would, the executors remarked sagaciously, take some time to arrive at a settlement. They omitted to say where they would be when they arrived.

Thus enlightened, Arthur made an unpremeditated excuse and took leave for the day. He was desperately inclined to drop the whole business, walk away and leave it without a backward glance. The desire to escape was so literal that he dismissed his car and walked uptown. He was tired of possessions. His feeling was sincere, just as one may weary of the confinement of walls and roof after being indoors too much; the more so since he had never experienced the inclemency of the untempered wind to the shorn lamb. ... A cup of coffee, mister. . . . Arthur gave the suppliant the loose change in his pocket hastily, looking guilty and ashamed. Am I my brother's keeper? Like most humane and sensitive souls, he wished vaguely for some impersonal super-power to take over the load of responsibility. It is especially the dream of those who cannot manage even their own affairs, a secret and unconscious excuse. Man is the naked animal, the stepchild of nature. The limit of his freedom is his ability to carry a pack on his back. He envies his fellow animals their fleet-foot grace, their ignorance of yesterday and to-morrow. His gods are winged and timeless.

Arthur's one personal venture had failed. If the money was lost, that let him out. Gina had married him for the money. . . .
All, all of a piece throughout; Thy chase had a beast in view; Thy wars brought nothing about; Thy lovers were all untrue. . . .

Gina was in the library with her social secretary, an efficient middle-aged woman, acknowledging messages of condolence. Hundreds had accumulated, a drift of dead leaves, a funeral offering. When they were disposed of, Mrs. Siddall's shade would vanish with them. Gina took up a letter, glanced at the signature, and varied the formula of reply to the importance of the name. She looked up as Arthur entered; she didn't expect him so early but she had just been thinking of plans for the future.

"We can finish these to-morrow," she said; the secretary took the hint and effaced herself. Gina said to Arthur: "I've been wondering, wouldn't it be best to close both the houses as soon as possible and perhaps go abroad? For the winter, at least."

"The houses will have to be sold," Arthur said. "I'm afraid there won't be much left when the estate is settled. Practically nothing—we really haven't any income now. Gina, it's no use going on, is it?"

"Going on with what?" But she understood.

"You could get a divorce in Paris, or somewhere. I'll meet whatever arrangements you decide on; I expect there'll be enough to—to provide for you. Even if the estate is wiped out, I could sell my library."

"A divorce?" She heard her own voice, flat and thin. "Why?"

Of all things in the world, he could never tell her why. How could he explain the humiliation of a man who has been seduced by a virgin?

"I thought you might prefer a clean break," he said. "Since it's always been—distasteful to you; and there is no reason now why we should—keep up appearances. . . . Anyhow, I can't go on."

"You're not going to leave me? Now—so soon after . . ."

He winced. "No, of course not; we needn't bother each other; and if you want to go abroad you can take your own time and avoid all the—the talk."

What took Gina's breath away was the completeness of the disaster and Arthur's matter-of-fact tone. As if there were nothing else to be said. He hadn't thought out what he was going to say or even meant to say it just then. Simply he had come to the end. After he had left the room she realized that she had apparently acquiesced. She thought she must be mad. Such a conversation could not have occurred. Mrs. Siddall was dead and Benjy was dead. The Siddall fortune had vanished, and Arthur was asking her to divorce him. All that couldn't have happened so suddenly, leaving nothing. . . .

The butler appeared, the door being open; he paused discreetly, and said: "Mr. Van Buren is calling, madam."

"Who?" said Gina.

"Mr. Van Buren, madam. I said I would enquire if you were at home. He is in the drawingroom."

"Oh—yes," Gina said. She moved like a sleepwalker. She had no motive except the necessity for action of some kind.

Jake had not written any letter of condolence; he thought they were ghastly. Since Benjy's death, two months ago, Jake had refrained from calling, out of delicacy; she wouldn't want to see outsiders. He came now to express a genuine sympathy.

Strict mourning enhanced Gina's beauty, gave it a classic elegance; she resembled a lady on a cameo, under a willow tree. Her hand was cold; as she listened to him she put out her other hand instinctively. "Why," she said, "you really are sorry for me!"

"Of course I am."

"Nobody else is." Tears welled out of her eyes; she made a pathetic effort to stop, puckering her face like a child. "I don't cry," she said wildly. "I haven't—this is—"

Jake really was sorry for her. He was perhaps the only man since the world began who was touched, not terrified, by a weeping woman. And he knew what to do about it. "Cry all you want to," he said. Six hours later he was wondering what he had let himself in for. On such occasions, one said things intended only for the emergency. He didn't suppose Gina would take them seriously; but he considered it obligatory to afford her full opportunities for a graceful repudiation. He'd have to telephone her in the morning, call again in the afternoon if she gave permission, and so on diminuendo, until they resumed by imperceptible degrees their former footing. The episode would be closed with affirmations on his part of unalterable devotion, of his readiness to hasten from the Antipodes if she should summon him at any time during the remainder of his natural life. The least a woman could do, in acknowledgment of such an offer, was to let it go at that. Oh, the very least, Jake reflected ruefully; usually they insisted on doing ever so much more. But surely not Gina, in her position. Ten to one she'd be "out" when he telephoned, transmitting polite regrets through the butler. She would be glad to let time obliterate an hour of pardonable hysteria. Jake really couldn't quite remember all they had said—The usual things. . . . He had it on his mind while he waited to take Mysie to supper. It was her last week with a show that was going on the road. She had only a secondary rôle; but she was lucky to have got anything that summer. After many postponements, Jake's play was to go into rehearsal in two weeks. Corrigan had promised her the lead. Meantime she would have a few days' rest. She was tired and cross. "Well, that's that. Where do we eat?" "Anywhere that suits you." Jake had brought some pages of his play, bits he had rewritten and wanted to talk over with her.