night was tremulous with the beat of wings. the first snow of the season was falling, giving to familiar streets a theatric look of enchanted strangeness. large flakes sailed confidently as descending doves; little ones came in flurries like a storm of petals. perhaps boy-angels in heavenly orchards were shaking the blossoms with their romping. teddy glanced at the girl beside him; it seemed that an all-wise providence had sent the snow especially as a background for her.
they were returning from the final performance of october. they had been behind the scenes with fluffy, where friends had been drugging her melancholy with the assurance that, whatever might be said of the play, her acting had scored a triumph.
the illusion of the footlights followed them. streets were a new stage-setting in which they had become the dominant personalities. the shrieking of motor-horns above the din of traffic seemed the agonized cry of defeated lovers, divided in a chaos of misunderstandings.
as they drove up broadway desire crouched with her cheek against the pane. she was trying to make out the hoardings on which the name of janice audrey was featured in large letters. while she performed her ritual at each vanishing shrine, teddy sat unheeded.
her saint-like hands were clasped against her breast. her face hung palely meditative, a shadow cast upon the dusk. she filled the night with fragrance. the falling flakes outside seemed to kiss her hair in passing.
he could only imagine the old-rose shade of the velvet opera-cloak that hid her from him. her white-fox furs lay across her shoulders like drifted snow. he ached intolerably to take her in his arms.
her eyes were turned away. he could only see the faint outline of her cheek and the slender curve of her girlish neck. she threw out remarks as they traveled—remarks which called for no answer and expected none.
“horace’ll have to own now that she was wise in cultivating other friendships. poor old horace!—and all those bills will be covered up to-morrow with some new great success. such is fame!—fluffy’s so discouraged.”
“do you think that was true?”
“what?” her question was asked lazily, more out of politeness than curiosity.
“that october was her autobiography?”
“partly. artistic people like to think themselves tragic. you do. i’ve noticed.”
“i think it was.” he refused to be diverted. “i think it was real tragedy. she’s given up so much for fame; it’s brought her nothing.”
desire laughed quietly. “the old subject. i knew where you were going the minute you started. it’s like a hat that you want to get rid of; you hang it on every peg you come to. no, i’m not meaning to be unkind; but you do amuse me, meester deek.—fluffy’s very much to be envied.”
“why?”
“she’s beautiful.”
“so are you. but being beautiful isn’t everything. being loved is the thing that satisfies.”
“does it? and loving too, i expect. but you see i don’t know: i’ve never loved.”
“you won’t let yourself love.” he spoke the words almost inaudibly.
they both fell silent. she still bent forward, her head and shoulders silhouetted against the pane. her lack of response made his passion seem foolishness.
during the weeks of enforced friendship the physical bond between them had been growing more compelling.
it was only in crowded places that her actions acknowledged it; when they were by themselves her reticence announced plainly, “trespassers will be prosecuted.” then she became forbidding; but her sudden gusts of coldness, her very inaccessibility, only added the more to her attraction. he told himself that women who left men nothing to conquer were not valued. he found himself filled with overpowering longings to defy her attempts to thwart him. his mind seethed with pictures of what might happen. he saw himself pressing those hands against his lips, kissing her eyes or her slender neck, where the false curl danced and beckoned. would this pain of expectancy never end? did she also suffer beneath her pale aloofness?
with the high-strung sensitiveness of the lover, he began to suspect that his procrastination piqued her. sometimes he fancied that even vashti criticized his delay in announcing his intentions. he dreaded lest desire should think that he was flirting. but why didn’t she help him? did girls ever help their lovers? she increased his difficulties at every opportunity. shyness, perhaps! time and again when he had nerved himself to the point of proposing, she had struck him dumb with a languid triviality or flippancy of gesture.
but to-night it would be different the enchantment of the snow tingled in his blood. the warning of the woman who had procrastinated so long that she had lost her sincerity, spurred him to confession. surely to-night, if ever——
his hand set out on a voyage of discovery. it slipped into her muff and found her fingers.
she shuddered. it was as though a chill had struck her. “what are you doing? you’re queer to-night. funny.”
he had no words in which to tell her. he was terribly in earnest. hammers were pounding in his temples. his face was twitching. the darkness choked him.
he drooped closer. his lips brushed her furs. she sat breathless. his lips crept higher and touched her hair.
“no, please.” her voice was shaky and childish. “not now. i—i don’t feel like it.”
he drew back. though she had denied him, their hands clung together. hers lay motionless, like the beating heart of a spent bird that has lost the strength to save itself. the power that he knew he had over her at that moment made him feel like a ruffian who had lain in ambush and taken her unaware.
“shall i let it go?” he whispered.
for answer the slim fingers nestled closer.
“meester deek, you were never in love before, were you?”
“never.”
“very wonderful. i thought not. you don’t act like it.”
“and you, princess?”
“ah!” she smiled mysteriously. “there was a boy who asked permission to marry me once. it was just after i’d put up my hair. i was only fifteen, but i looked just as old as i do now. he told mother that he’d saved fifty dollars, and that he wanted to start early so as to raise a large family. very sweet and domestic of him, wasn’t it?”
“but that wasn’t serious.”
“no, not serious, you poor meester deek; but it makes you jealous.—and there were others.”
“how many?”
“oh, dozens. i’ve always had some one in love with me, ever since i can remember. that’s why i gave names to my hands.”
“then no one ever held them before?”
“i shouldn’t say that. but almost no one. i used to let tom hold them when he wouldn’t stop drizzling. tom was different; he was a kind of brother.”
“and what am i?”
“i’ve often wondered.” her brows drew together. “you’re a kind of friend, and yet you’re not.”
“more than a friend?”
they were halting. she freed her hand and stroked his face daringly. “you’re meester deck. isn’t that enough? some one whom i love and trust.”
she threw the door open. on the point of jumping out, she hesitated. “the pavement’s so slushy. whatever shall i do with my thin shoes and all?”
“let me carry you.”
as his arms enfolded her, she stiffened. for a moment there was a rebellious struggle. then her arm went about his neck and her face sank against his shoulder.
how light she was! how little! how unchanged from the child-desire of the woodland!
“d’you remember the last time?” he whispered. “it’s years since i’ve done it.”
“not your fault,” she laughed. “you’d have done it often and often, if i’d allowed you. i guess you wish it was always snowing.”
the distance was all too short. he would have carried her across the lighted foyer, into the elevator, up to the apartment. he didn’t mind who stared at him. he would have gone on holding her thus forever. as they reached the steps she slipped from his arms.
“oh, you big, strong man!” her gray eyes were dancing; a faint flush spread across her forehead. “i do hope nobody saw us.” he was stealing his arm into hers. she turned him back. “forgetful! you haven’t paid the taxi.”
after he had paid, he searched round for her. she had gone. it was the first time she had done it; she always waited for him. so she knew what was coming! by her flight she was lengthening by a few more minutes their long uncertainty. in the quiet of the dim-lit room, with the snow gliding past the window, each separate flake tiptoeing like a faery, he would tell her. but would he need to tell her? she would be waiting for him, her face drooping against her shoulder, looking sweet and weary. she would be like a tired child, its mischief forgotten, ready to stretch out its arms and snuggle in his breast. all that need be said would come in broken phrases—phrases which no one but themselves could understand. and then, after that—— she might cry a little. when they were married, perhaps hal——
he waited till the elevator had descended before he tapped. probably she was listening for him, fearing and yet hoping for the pressure of his arms and all the newness that they would begin together. he would read in her eyes the writing of surrender—the same writing that he had read on the dusty panes of childhood, “i love you. i love you.”
he tapped; he tapped more loudly. the door was opened ty mr. dak. “hulloa! come in.”
“where’s desire?”
“in her room getting ready.”
“ready? for what?”
they entered the dim-lit room where the most splendid moment of life should have been happening.
“didn’t you know?” mr. dak appeared not to notice his emotion. “everybody else knew. there’s a supper-party to miss audrey. just the six of us.”
they fell to making conversation. mr. dak did most of the talking. teddy found himself agreeing to the statement that christianity was a colossal blunder, and that mohammedanism was the only religion worth the having. he would have agreed to anything. as he listened for desire’s footstep, he nodded his head, saying, “yes. of course. obviously.” all the while he was aware of the embarrassed kindness that looked out from the eyes of the little man. somewhere, in the silence of his brain, a voice kept questioning, “mr. dak, are you in love with vashti? does she laugh at you when you try to tell her? do you wish the world was pagan because then you’d be her lord and master?”
“in the mohammedan faith,” mr. dak was saying, “a woman’s hope of immortality lies in merging her life with a man’s.”
then he set himself to criticize pedantically the breakdown of the christian ideal of marriage.
the door-bell rang. fluffy and horace entered. the sparkle of laughter was in their eyes. they brought with them an atmosphere of love-making. as horace helped her out of her sables, his hands loitered on her shoulders caressingly.
she turned to the others with the sad little smile of one who summons all the world to her protection. she looked extremely beautiful and lavish, with her daffodil-colored hair floating like a cloud above her blue, hypnotic eyes. “i’m so depressed. i do hope you’ll cheer me. fancy having to learn a new part and to worry with rehearsals, and then to go on the road again.” she sat down on the couch, her hands tucked beneath her, her arms making handles for the vase of her body. “i wish i wasn’t an actress. i wish i were just a wife in a dear little house—a sort of nest—with a kind man to take care of me. only——” she glanced at horace. “only i never met the always kind man.”
“women never know their own minds,” said horace. “a law ought to be passed to compel every woman who’s loved to marry.”
at supper desire’s place was empty. teddy turned to vashti and whispered, “where is she? isn’t she coming?”
vashti looked at him with her slow, comprehending smile. “she’s coming. but she’s thinking. i wonder what about.”
at that moment desire entered and slipped into the vacant chair beside him. all through the meal as the atmosphere brightened, she sat silent. she seemed to be doing her best not to notice that he was there.
the talk turned on women and what men thought of them.
“men may think what they like, but they never know us,”. fluffy said. “love’s a game of guess-work and deception. half the time when a man’s blaming a woman for not having married him, he ought to be down on his knees thanking her for having spared him. she knows what she is, and she knows what he is. he doesn’t. men invariably confuse friendship with matrimony. they can’t understand how women can enjoy their company and yet couldn’t fancy them as husbands.”
desire woke up. “and the worst of it is that sometimes we women can’t understand ourselves.”
“some men can.” vashti glanced at mr. dak, whom she had so often praised for his understanding. mr. dak returned her gaze as non-committingly as a buddhish idol. horace leant forward across the table. the gleam of tolerant amusement was never absent from his eyes.
“you ladies are all talking nonsense, and you know it. even little desire over there knows it. directly you begin to like a man you begin to think of marriage—only some of you begin to think of running away from it ‘between men and women there is no friendship possible. passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship’—you remember lord darlington’s lines. when love is trifled with, it sours into hatred. every man who loves a woman has his moments when he hates her intensely.”
“did you ever hate me?” fluffy covered his hand to insure the answer she required.
“yes. and you’ve hated me. desire could tell just how much if she dared. you women all discuss your love-affairs. you’re fondest of a man when he’s absent. when he’s present, you never confess.”
teddy sat quietly listening. he thought how silly these people were to talk so much and to love so little. life was going by them; none of them had begun to live yet they were like timid bathers at the seaside, who splashed and paddled, but never really got wet. they wouldn’t learn to swim for fear of getting drowned. he wished he could take them to a house in eden row, where a man and woman were living bravely and accepting hard knocks as things to be expected. while he listened, he watched desire, wondering what ghostly thoughts were wandering behind her wistful eyes.
chairs were pushed back. they were leaving the room. fluffy turned to meet him in the doorway. her arm was about desire. she hung her head, glancing searchingly from one to the other.
“we’re a pack of fools,” she whispered intensely. “don’t you listen to us.” she took teddy’s hand and hesitated at a loss for words. with a sudden gust of emotion she kissed him. “little desire, why don’t you marry him? he looks at you so lovingly and sadly.”
“marry him!” desire faltered. “i don’t know. but we’re very fond of each other, aren’t we, teddy?”
it was the first time she had called him that. the babies came into her eyes; she broke from fluffy and ran down the passage. from a safe distance she called laughingly, “i won’t have you hanging about with my beau. you’ll be kissing him again; and i won’t have you kissing him when i’m not present.”
in the room which overlooked the hudson, vashti was playing. for a minute teddy had a vision of how he had first seen her with hal; only times had changed. the man who bent across her shoulder now was mr. dak. it was a child’s song that she was singing, about a lady who was devoted to a poodle-dog which died, and how she fretted and fretted. the last verse leapt out of melancholy into merriment,
“but e’er three months had past
she had bought another poodle-dog.
exactly like the last”
to teddy the words were a philosophy of fickleness; that was precisely what she had done on losing hal. a worrying fear came upon him as he glanced from mother to daughter: in outward appearance they were so much alike. if he were to leave desire, would she, too, replace him?
the thought was in the air. mr. dak, leaning against the piano to make himself an inch taller, began to descant on the transience of affection. he had arrived at his favorite topic and was saying, “now, among the mohammedans——” when horace interrupted.
“it depends on what you mean by transience. one’s got to go on living, so one goes on loving. but if you mean that one forgets—why, it’s not true.”
last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
there fell thy shadow, cynara! thy breath was shed
upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
and i was desolate and sick of an old passion,
yea, i was desolate and bowed my head:
i have been faithful to thee, cynara, in my fashion.’
“one never forgets. there’s always a cynara. one may love twenty times, but betwixt your lips and the lips of the latest woman there’s always the memory of the first ghostly rapture. you seek cynara to the end of life; but if you met her again, you would not find her.”
across the window the snow drifted white as the loosened hair of time. in the room there was no stir. unseen people entered. vashti shaded her face with her hand; it was easy to guess of whom she was thinking. fluffy gazed into space, a child who finds itself alone and is frightened. mr. dak was inscrutable. horace lay back, staring at the ceiling, watching the ascending smoke of his cigarette. to teddy the room was like an empty house in which innumerable clocks ticked loudly.
he met desire’s eyes. “we are young. we are young,” they said. “why won’t they leave us to ourselves?”
“my god, i wish i were little. i wish i were no older than desire. i wish i could get away from all this rottenness and wake up to-morrow in the country. think what it’ll look like, all white and sparkling and shiny! where’s the good of your telling me you love me, horace, if you can’t make me good and little—if you can’t put back the hands of time?”
fluffy jumped up, half laughing, half crying, and threw wide the window. she leant out, so that the snow fell glistening in the gold of her hair.
“not a sound. listen!”
horace rose and stood beside her. “would you like to wake up in the country? i’ll manage it. i’d manage anything for you, little girl.”
mr. dak broke his silence. “i know a farm. it’s up the hudson—seventy miles at least from here. the people are my friends.”
in a babel of excited voices it was planned. of a sudden the triflers had become lovers confessed. they seemed to think that by the childish trick of escaping, their youth could be recaptured. while the women ran off to change and wrap up, the men completed arrangements for the journey.
when the limousine arrived it had seats for only five; cushions were strewn on the floor for desire and teddy. she kept far away from him till the light went out. again it was like standing in an empty house; people’s brains were clocks which ticked solemnly, “and i was desolate and sick of an old passion.”
they two alone had nothing to remember—all the rapture of life lay ahead. in the darkness he felt her hand groping. one by one he coaxed apart the reluctant fingers and pressed the little palm against his mouth. she allowed herself to be drawn closer; he could feel the wild bird of her heart beating its wings against the walls of the flesh.
“dearest.”
“hush! dear is enough,” she whispered.
long after she was asleep he sat staring into the blackness. to-morrow—all the long to-morrows would be theirs.
