Twilight Sleep (14 page)

The Housetop was packed. The low balcony crammed with fashionable
people overhung them like a wreath of ripe fruits, peachy and white
and golden, made of painted faces, bare arms, jewels, brocades and
fantastic furs. It was the music–hall of the moment.

The curtain shot up, and the little auditorium was plunged in
shadow. Nona could leave her hand in Heuston's. On the stage—a
New Orleans cotton–market—black dancers tossed and capered. They
were like ripe fruits too, black figs flung about in hot sunshine,
falling to earth with crimson bursts of laughter splitting open on
white teeth, and bounding up again into golden clouds of cotton–
dust. It was all warm and jolly and inconsequent. The audience
forgot to smoke and chatter: little murmurs of enjoyment rippled
over it.

The curtain descended, the light–garlands blossomed out, and once
more floor and balcony were all sound and movement.

"Why, there's Lita up there in the balcony," Nona exclaimed, "just
above the stage. Don't you see—with Ardwin, and Jack Staley, and
Bee Lindon, and that awful Keiler woman?"

She had drawn her hand away at the sight of the box full. "I don't
see Jim with them after all. Oh, how I hate that crowd!" All the
ugly and disquieting realities she had put from her swept back with
a rush. If only she could have had her one evening away from them!
"I didn't think we should find them here—I thought Lita had been
last week."

"Well, don't that crowd always keep on going to the same shows over
and over again? There's nothing they hate as much as novelty—
they're so fed up with it! And besides, what on earth do you care?
They won't bother us."

She wavered a moment, and then said: "You see, Lita always bothers
me."

"Why? Anything new?"

"She says she's tired of everything, Jim included, and is going to
chuck it, and go in for the cinema."

"Oh, that—?" He manifested no surprise. "Well, isn't it where
she belongs?"

"Perhaps—but Jim!"

"Poor Jim. We've all got to swallow our dose one day or another."

"Yes; but I can't bear it. Not for Jim. Look here, Stan—I'm
going up there to join them," she suddenly declared.

"Oh, nonsense, Nona; they don't want you. And besides I hate that
crowd as much as you do… I don't want you mixed up with it.
That cad Staley, and the Keiler woman…"

She gave a dry laugh. "Afraid they'll compromise me?"

"Oh, rot! But what's the use of their even knowing you're here?
They'll hate your butting in, Lita worst of all."

"Stan, I'm going up to them."

"Oh, damn it. You always—"

She had got up and was pushing away the little table in front of
them. But suddenly she stopped and sat down again. For a moment
or two she did not speak, nor look at Heuston. She had seen the
massive outline of a familiar figure rising from a seat near the
front and planting itself there for a slow gaze about the audience.

"Hallo—your father? I didn't know he patronized this kind of
show," Heuston said.

Nona groped for a careless voice, and found it. "Father? So it
is! Oh, he's really very frivolous—my influence, I'm afraid."
The voice sounded sharp and rattling in her own ears. "How funny,
though! You don't happen to see mother and Amalasuntha anywhere?
That would make the family party complete."

She could not take her eyes from her father. How queer he looked—
how different! Strained and vigilant; she didn't know how else to
put it. And yet tired, inexpressibly tired, as if with some
profound inner fatigue which made him straighten himself a little
too rigidly, and throw back his head with a masterful young–mannish
air as he scanned the balcony just above him. He stood there for a
few moments, letting the lights and the eyes concentrate on him, as
if lending himself to the display with a certain distant tolerance;
then he began to move toward one of the exits. But half way he
stopped, turned with his dogged jerk of the shoulders, and made for
a gangway leading up to the balcony.

"Hullo," Heuston exclaimed. "Is he going up to Lita?"

Nona gave a little laugh. "I might have known it! How like father—
when he undertakes anything!"

"Undertakes what?"

"Why, looking after Lita. He probably found out at the last minute
that Jim couldn't come, and made up his mind to replace him. Isn't
it splendid, how he's helping us? I know he loathes this sort of
place—and the people she's with. But he told me we oughtn't to
lose our influence on her, we ought to keep tight hold of her—"

"I see."

Nona had risen again and was beginning to move toward the
passageway. Heuston followed her, and she smiled back at him over
her shoulder. She felt as if she must cram every cranny in their
talk with more words. The silence which had enclosed them as in a
crystal globe had been splintered to atoms, and had left them
stammering and exposed.

"Well, I needn't go up to Lita after all; she really doesn't
require two dragons. Thank goodness, father has replaced me, and I
don't have to be with that crew … just this evening," she
whispered, slipping her arm through Heuston's. "I should have
hated to have it end in that way." By this time they were out in
the street.

On the wet pavement he detained her. "Nona, how IS it going to
end?"

"Why, by your driving me home, I hope. It's too wet to walk, worse
luck."

He gave a resigned shrug, called a taxi, wavered a moment, and
jumped in after her. "I don't know why I come," he grumbled.

She kept a bright hold on herself, lit a cigarette at his lighter,
and chattered resolutely of the show till the motor turned the
corner of her street.

"Well, my child, it's really good–bye now. I'm off next week with
the other lady," Heuston said as they stopped before the Manford
door. He paid the taxi and helped her out, and she stood in the
rain in front of him. "I don't come back till Aggie divorces me,
you understand," he continued.

"She won't!"

"She'll have to."

"It's hideous—doing it in that way."

"Not as hideous as the kind of life I'm leading."

She made no answer, and he followed her silently up the doorstep
while she fumbled for her latchkey. She was trembling now with
weariness and disappointment, and a feverish thirst for the one
more kiss she was resolved he should not take.

"Other people get their freedom. I don't see why I shouldn't have
mine," he insisted.

"Not in that way, Stan! You mustn't. It's too horrible."

"That way? You know there's no other."

She turned the latchkey, and the ponderous vestibule door swung
inward. "If you do, don't imagine I'll ever marry you!" she cried
out as she crossed the threshold; and he flung back furiously:
"Wait till I ask you!" and plunged away into the rain.

Pauline Manford left Mrs. Landish's door with the uncomfortable
sense of having swallowed a new frustration. In this crowded life
of hers they were as difficult to avoid as germs—and there was not
always time to have them extirpated!

Manford had evidently found out about Lita's Dawnside frequentations;
found it out, no doubt, as Pauline had, by seeing her photograph in
that loathsome dancing group in the "Looker–on." Well, perhaps it
was best that he should know; it would certainly confirm his resolve
to stop any action against the Mahatma.

Only—if he had induced the Lindons to drop the investigation, why
was he still preoccupied by it? Why had he gone to Mrs. Landish to
make that particular inquiry about Lita? Pauline would have liked
to shake off the memory of his voice, and of the barely disguised
impatience with which he had waited for her to go before putting
his question. Confronted by this new riddle (when there were
already so many others in her path) she felt a reasonless
exasperation against the broken doorknob which had let her into the
secret. If only Kitty Landish, instead of dreaming about
Mesopotamian embroideries, would send for a locksmith and keep her
house in repair!

All day Pauline was oppressed by the nervous apprehension that
Manford might have changed his mind about dropping the investigation.
If there had been time she would have gone to Alvah Loft for relief;
she had managed so far to squeeze in a daily séance, and had come
to depend on it as "addicts" do on their morphia. The very brevity
of the treatment, and the blunt negative face and indifferent
monosyllables of the Healer, were subtly stimulating after the
verbiage and flummery of his predecessors. Such stern economy of
means impressed Pauline in much the same way as a new labour–saving
device; she liked everything the better for being a short–cut to
something else, and even spiritual communion for resembling an
improved form of stenography. As Mrs. Swoffer said, Alvah Loft was
really the Busy Man's Christ.

But that afternoon there was literally not time for a treatment.
Manford's decision to spend the Easter holidays at Cedarledge
necessitated one of those campaigns of intensive preparation in
which his wife and Maisie Bruss excelled. Leading the simple life
at Cedarledge involved despatching there a part of the New York
domestic staff at least ten days in advance, testing and lighting
three complicated heating systems, going over all the bells and
electric wiring, and making sure that the elaborate sanitary
arrangements were in irreproachable order.

Nor was this all. Pauline, who prided herself on the perfect
organization of every detail of both her establishments, had lately
been studying the estimate for a new and singularly complete system
of burglar–alarm at Cedarledge, and also going over the bills for
the picturesque engine–house and up–to–date fire–engine with which
she had just endowed the village patriarchally clustered below the
Cedarledge hill. All these matters called for deep thought and
swift decision; and the fact gave her a sudden stimulus. No rest–
cure in the world was as refreshing to her as a hurried demand on
her practical activity; she thrilled to it like a war–horse to a
trumpet, and compelled the fagged Maisie to thrill in unison.

In this case their energy was redoubled by the hope that, if
Manford found everything to his liking at Cedarledge, he might take
a fancy to spending more time there. Pauline's passionate interest
in plumbing and electric wiring was suffused with a romantic glow
at the thought that they might lure her husband back to domestic
intimacy. "The heating of the new swimming–pool must be finished
too, and the workmen all out of the way—you'll have to go there
next week, Maisie, and impress on everybody that there must not be
a workman visible anywhere when we arrive."

Breathless, exultant, Pauline hurried home for a late cup of tea in
her boudoir, and settled down, pencil in hand, with plans and
estimates, as eagerly as her husband, in the early days of his
legal career, used to study the documents of a new case.

Maisie, responding as she always did to the least touch of the
spur, yet lifted a perplexed brow to murmur: "All right. But I
don't see how I can very well leave before the Birth Control
dinner. You know you haven't yet rewritten the opening passage
that you used by mistake at the—"

Pauline's colour rose. Maisie's way of putting it was tactless;
but the fact remained that the opening of that unlucky speech had
to be rewritten, and that Pauline was never very sure of her syntax
unless Maisie's reinforced it. She had always meant to be
cultivated—she still thought she was when she looked at her
bookshelves. But when she had to compose a speech, though words
never failed her, the mysterious relations between them sometimes
did. Wealth and extensive social activities were obviously
incompatible with a complete mastery of grammar, and secretaries
were made for such emergencies. Yes; Maisie, fagged as she looked,
could certainly not be spared till the speech was remodelled.

The telephone, ringing from downstairs, announced that the Marchesa
was on her way up to the boudoir. Pauline's pencil fell from her
hand. On her way up! It was really too inconsiderate…
Amalasuntha must be made to understand… But there was the
undaunted lady.

"The footman swore you were out, dear; but I knew from his manner
that I should find you. (With Powder, now, I never can tell.) And
I simply HAD to rush in long enough to give you a good hug." The
Marchesa glanced at Maisie, and the secretary effaced herself after
another glance, this time from her employer, which plainly warned
her: "Wait in the next room; I won't let her stay."

To her visitor Pauline murmured somewhat coldly: "I left word that
I was out because I'm desperately busy over the new plumbing and
burglar–alarm systems at Cedarledge. Dexter wants to go there for
Easter, and of course everything must be in order before we
arrive…"

The Marchesa's eyes widened. "Ah, this marvellous American
plumbing! I believe you all treat yourselves to a new set of
bathrooms every year. There's only one bath at San Fedele, and my
dear parents–in–law had it covered with a wooden lid so that it
could be used to do the boots on. It's really rather convenient—
and out of family feeling Venturino has always reserved it for that
purpose. But that's not what I came to talk about. What I want is
to find words for my gratitude…"

Pauline leaned back, gazing wearily at Amalasuntha's small sharp
face, which seemed to glitter with a new and mysterious varnish of
prosperity. "For what? You've thanked me already more than my
little present deserved."

The Marchesa gave her a look of puzzled retrospection. "Oh—that
lovely cheque the other day? Of course my thanks include that too.
But I'm entirely overwhelmed by your new munificence."

"My new munificence?" Pauline echoed between narrowed lips. Could
this be an adroit way of prefacing a fresh appeal? With the huge
Cedarledge estimates at her elbow she stiffened herself for
refusal. Amalasuntha must really be taught moderation.

"Well, Dexter's munificence, then—his royal promise! I left him
only an hour ago," the Marchesa cried with rising exultation.

"You mean he's found a job for Michelangelo? I'm very glad," said
Pauline, still without enthusiasm.

"No, no; something ever so much better than that. At least," the
Marchesa hastily corrected herself, "something more immediately
helpful. His debts, dear, my silly boy's debts! Dexter has
promised … has authorized me to cable that he need not sail, as
everything will be paid. It's more, far more, than I could have
hoped!" The happy mother possessed herself of Mrs. Manford's
unresponsive hand.

Pauline freed the hand abruptly. She felt the need of assimilating
and interpreting this news as rapidly as possible, without
betraying undue astonishment and yet without engaging her
responsibility; but the effort was beyond her, and she could only
sit and stare. Dexter had promised to pay Michelangelo's debts—
but with whose money? And why?

"I'm sure Dexter wants to do all he can to help you about
Michelangelo—we both do. But—"

Pauline's brain was whirling; she found it impossible to go on.
She knew by heart the extent of Michelangelo's debts. Amalasuntha
took care that everyone did. She seemed to feel a sort of fatuous
pride in their enormity, and was always dinning it into her
cousin's ears. Dexter, if he had really made such a promise, must
have made it in his wife's name; and to do so without consulting
her was so unlike him that the idea deepened her bewilderment.

"Are you sure? I'm sorry, Amalasuntha—but this comes as a
surprise… Dexter and I were to talk the matter over … to
see what could be done…"

"Darling, it's so like you to belittle your own generosity—you
always do! And so does Dexter. But in this case—well, the
cable's gone; so why deny it?" triumphed the Marchesa.

When Maisie Bruss returned, Pauline was still sitting with an idle
pencil before the pile of bills and estimates. She fixed an
unseeing eye on her secretary. "These things will have to wait.
I'm dreadfully tired, I don't know why. But I'll go over them all
early tomorrow, before you come; and—Maisie—I hate to ask it; but
do you think you could get here by eight o'clock instead of nine?
There's so much to be done; and I want to get you off to Cedarledge
as soon as possible."

Maisie, a little paler and more drawn than usual, declared that of
course she would turn up at eight.

Even after she had gone Pauline did not move, or give another
glance to the papers. For the first time in her life she had an
obscure sense of moving among incomprehensible and overpowering
forces. She could not, to herself, have put it even as clearly as
that—she just dimly felt that, between her and her usual firm
mastery of facts, something nebulous and impenetrable was closing
in… Nona—what if she were to consult Nona? The girl
sometimes struck her as having an uncanny gift of divination, as
getting at certain mysteries of mood and character more quickly and
clearly than her mother… "Though, when it comes to practical
things, poor child, she's not much more use than Jim…"

Jim! His name called up the other associated with it. Lita was
now another source of worry. Whichever way Pauline looked, the
same choking obscurity enveloped her. Even about Jim and Lita it
clung in a dense fog, darkening and distorting what, only a short
time ago, had seemed a daylight case of domestic harmony. Money,
health, good looks, a beautiful baby … and now all this fuss
about having to express one's own personality. Yes; Lita's
attitude was just as confusing as Dexter's. Was Dexter trying to
express his own personality too? If only they would all talk
things out with her—help her to understand, instead of moving
about her in the obscurity, like so many burglars with dark
lanterns! This image jerked her attention back to the Cedarledge
estimates, and wearily she adjusted her eye–glasses and took up her
pencil…

Her maid rapped. "What dress, please, madam?" To be sure—they
were dining that evening with the Walter Rivingtons. It was the
first time they had invited Pauline since her divorce from Wyant;
Mrs. Rivington's was the only house left in which the waning
traditions of old New York still obstinately held out, and divorce
was regarded as a social disadvantage. But they had taken
Manford's advice successfully in a difficult case, and were too
punctilious not to reward him in the one way he would care about.
The Rivingtons were the last step of the Manford ladder.

"The silver moiré, and my pearls." That would be distinguished and
exclusive–looking. Pauline was thankful Dexter had definitely
promised to go with her—he was getting so restive nowadays about
what he had taken to calling her dull dinners…

The telephone again—this time Dexter's voice. Pauline listened
apprehensively, wondering if it would do to speak to him now about
Amalasuntha's extraordinary announcement, or whether it might be
more tactful to wait. He was so likely to be nervous and irritable
at the end of the day. Yes; it was in his eleventh–hour voice that
he was speaking.

"Pauline—look here; I shall be kept at the office rather late.
Please put off dinner, will you? I'd like a quiet evening alone
with you—"

"A quiet… But, Dexter, we're dining at the Rivingtons'. Shall
I telephone to say you may be late?"

"The Rivingtons?" His voice became remote and utterly indifferent.
"No; telephone we won't come. Chuck them… I want a talk with
you alone … can't we dine together quietly at home?" He
repeated the phrases slowly, as if he thought she had not
understood him.

Chuck the Rivingtons? It seemed like being asked to stand up in
church and deny her God. She sat speechless and let the fatal
words go on vibrating on the wire.

"Don't you hear me, Pauline? Why don't you answer? Is there
something wrong with the line?"

"No, Dexter. There's nothing wrong with the line."

"Well, then… You can explain to them … say anything you
like."

Through the dressing–room door she saw the maid laying out the
silver moiré, the chinchilla cloak, the pearls…

Explain to the Rivingtons!

"Very well, dear. What time shall I order dinner here?" she
questioned heroically.

She heard him ring off, and sat again staring into the fog, which
his words had only made more impenetrable.