one sunday morning eden was crossing the square with a spruce young man in a white flannel suit and a panama hat. they had been breakfasting at the brevoort and he was coaxing her to let him come up to her rooms and sing for an hour.
“no, i’ve got to write letters. you must run along now. i see a friend of mine over there, and i want to ask him about something before i go up.”
“that fellow with the dog? where did you pick him up?” the young man glanced toward the seat under a sycamore where hedger was reading the morning paper.
“oh, he’s an old friend from the west,” said eden easily. “i won’t introduce you, because he doesn’t like people. he’s a recluse. good-bye. i can’t be sure about tuesday. i’ll go with you if i have time after my lesson.” she nodded, left him, and went over to the seat littered with newspapers. the young man went up the avenue without looking back.
“well, what are you going to do today? shampoo this animal all morning?” eden enquired teasingly.
hedger made room for her on the seat. “no, at twelve o’clock i’m going out to coney island. one of my models is going up in a balloon this afternoon. i’ve often promised to go and see her, and now i’m going.”
eden asked if models usually did such stunts. no, hedger told her, but molly welch added to her earnings in that way. “i believe,” he added, “she likes the excitement of it. she’s got a good deal of spirit. that’s why i like to paint her. so many models have flaccid bodies.”
“and she hasn’t, eh? is she the one who comes to see you? i can’t help hearing her, she talks so loud.”
“yes, she has a rough voice, but she’s a fine girl. i don’t suppose you’d be interested in going?”
“i don’t know,” eden sat tracing patterns on the asphalt with the end of her parasol. “is it any fun? i got up feeling i’d like to do something different today. it’s the first sunday i’ve not had to sing in church. i had that engagement for breakfast at the brevoort, but it wasn’t very exciting. that chap can’t talk about anything but himself.”
hedger warmed a little. “if you’ve never been to coney island, you ought to go. it’s nice to see all the people; tailors and bar-tenders and prize-fighters with their best girls, and all sorts of folks taking a holiday.”
eden looked sidewise at him. so one ought to be interested in people of that kind, ought one? he was certainly a funny fellow. yet he was never, somehow, tiresome. she had seen a good deal of him lately, but she kept wanting to know him better, to find out what made him different from men like the one she had just left — whether he really was as different as he seemed. “i’ll go with you,” she said at last, “if you’ll leave that at home.” she pointed to caesar’s flickering ears with her sunshade.
“but he’s half the fun. you’d like to hear him bark at the waves when they come in.”
“no, i wouldn’t. he’s jealous and disagreeable if he sees you talking to any one else. look at him now.”
“of course, if you make a face at him. he knows what that means, and he makes a worse face. he likes molly welch, and she’ll be disappointed if i don’t bring him.”
eden said decidedly that he couldn’t take both of them. so at twelve o’clock when she and hedger got on the boat at desbrosses street, caesar was lying on his pallet, with a bone.
eden enjoyed the boat-ride. it was the first time she had been on the water, and she felt as if she were embarking for france. the light warm breeze and the plunge of the waves made her very wide awake, and she liked crowds of any kind. they went to the balcony of a big, noisy restaurant and had a shore dinner, with tall steins of beer. hedger had got a big advance from his advertising firm since he first lunched with miss bower ten days ago, and he was ready for anything.
after dinner they went to the tent behind the bathing beach, where the tops of two balloons bulged out over the canvas. a red-faced man in a linen suit stood in front of the tent, shouting in a hoarse voice and telling the people that if the crowd was good for five dollars more, a beautiful young woman would risk her life for their entertainment. four little boys in dirty red uniforms ran about taking contributions in their pillbox hats. one of the balloons was bobbing up and down in its tether and people were shoving forward to get nearer the tent.
“is it dangerous, as he pretends?” eden asked.
“molly says it’s simple enough if nothing goes wrong with the balloon. then it would be all over, i suppose.”
“wouldn’t you like to go up with her?”
“i? of course not. i’m not fond of taking foolish risks.”
eden sniffed. “i shouldn’t think sensible risks would be very much fun.”
hedger did not answer, for just then every one began to shove the other way and shout, “look out. there she goes!” and a band of six pieces commenced playing furiously.
as the balloon rose from its tent enclosure, they saw a girl in green tights standing in the basket, holding carelessly to one of the ropes with one hand and with the other waving to the spectators. a long rope trailed behind to keep the balloon from blowing out to sea.
as it soared, the figure in green tights in the basket diminished to a mere spot, and the balloon itself, in the brilliant light, looked like a big silver-grey bat, with its wings folded. when it began to sink, the girl stepped through the hole in the basket to a trapeze that hung below, and gracefully descended through the air, holding to the rod with both hands, keeping her body taut and her feet close together. the crowd, which had grown very large by this time, cheered vociferously. the men took off their hats and waved, little boys shouted, and fat old women, shining with the heat and a beer lunch, murmured admiring comments upon the balloonist’s figure. “beautiful legs, she has!”
“that’s so,” hedger whispered. “not many girls would look well in that position.” then, for some reason, he blushed a slow, dark, painful crimson.
the balloon descended slowly, a little way from the tent, and the red-faced man in the linen suit caught molly welch before her feet touched the ground, and pulled her to one side. the band struck up “blue bell” by way of welcome, and one of the sweaty pages ran forward and presented the balloonist with a large bouquet of artificial flowers. she smiled and thanked him, and ran back across the sand to the tent.
“can’t we go inside and see her?” eden asked. “you can explain to the door man. i want to meet her.” edging forward, she herself addressed the man in the linen suit and slipped something from her purse into his hand.
they found molly seated before a trunk that had a mirror in the lid and a “make-up” outfit spread upon the tray. she was wiping the cold cream and powder from her neck with a discarded chemise.
“hello, don,” she said cordially. “brought a friend?”
eden liked her. she had an easy, friendly manner, and there was something boyish and devil-may-care about her.
“yes, it’s fun. i’m mad about it,” she said in reply to eden’s questions. “i always want to let go, when i come down on the bar. you don’t feel your weight at all, as you would on a stationary trapeze.”
the big drum boomed outside, and the publicity man began shouting to newly arrived boatloads. miss welch took a last pull at her cigarette. “now you’ll have to get out, don. i change for the next act. this time i go up in a black evening dress, and lose the skirt in the basket before i start down.”
“yes, go along,” said eden. “wait for me outside the door. i’ll stay and help her dress.”
hedger waited and waited, while women of every build bumped into him and begged his pardon, and the red pages ran about holding out their caps for coins, and the people ate and perspired and shifted parasols against the sun. when the band began to play a two-step, all the bathers ran up out of the surf to watch the ascent. the second balloon bumped and rose, and the crowd began shouting to the girl in a black evening dress who stood leaning against the ropes and smiling. “it’s a new girl,” they called. “it ain’t the countess this time. you’re a peach, girlie!”
the balloonist acknowledged these compliments, bowing and looking down over the sea of upturned faces, — but hedger was determined she should not see him, and he darted behind the tent-fly. he was suddenly dripping with cold sweat, his mouth was full of the bitter taste of anger and his tongue felt stiff behind his teeth. molly welch, in a shirt-waist and a white tam-o’-shanter cap, slipped out from the tent under his arm and laughed up in his face. “she’s a crazy one you brought along. she’ll get what she wants!”
“oh, i’ll settle with you, all right!” hedger brought out with difficulty.
“it’s not my fault, donnie. i couldn’t do anything with her. she bought me off. what’s the matter with you? are you soft on her? she’s safe enough. it’s as easy as rolling off a log, if you keep cool.” molly welch was rather excited herself, and she was chewing gum at a high speed as she stood beside him, looking up at the floating silver cone. “now watch,” she exclaimed suddenly. “she’s coming down on the bar. i advised her to cut that out, but you see she does it first-rate. and she got rid of the skirt, too. those black tights show off her legs very well. she keeps her feet together like i told her, and makes a good line along the back. see the light on those silver slippers, — that was a good idea i had. come along to meet her. don’t be a grouch; she’s done it fine!”
molly tweaked his elbow, and then left him standing like a stump, while she ran down the beach with the crowd.
though hedger was sulking, his eye could not help seeing the low blue welter of the sea, the arrested bathers, standing in the surf, their arms and legs stained red by the dropping sun, all shading their eyes and gazing upward at the slowly falling silver star.
molly welch and the manager caught eden under the arms and lifted her aside, a red page dashed up with a bouquet, and the band struck up “blue bell.” eden laughed and bowed, took molly’s arm, and ran up the sand in her black tights and silver slippers, dodging the friendly old women, and the gallant sports who wanted to offer their homage on the spot.
when she emerged from the tent, dressed in her own clothes, that part of the beach was almost deserted. she stepped to her companion’s side and said carelessly: “hadn’t we better try to catch this boat? i hope you’re not sore at me. really, it was lots of fun.”
hedger looked at his watch. “yes, we have fifteen minutes to get to the boat,” he said politely.
as they walked toward the pier, one of the pages ran up panting. “lady, you’re carrying off the bouquet,” he said, aggrievedly.
eden stopped and looked at the bunch of spotty cotton roses in her hand. “of course. i want them for a souvenir. you gave them to me yourself.”
“i give ’em to you for looks, but you can’t take ’em away. they belong to the show.”
“oh, you always use the same bunch?”
“sure we do. there ain’t too much money in this business.”
she laughed and tossed them back to him. “why are you angry?” she asked hedger. “i wouldn’t have done it if i’d been with some fellows, but i thought you were the sort who wouldn’t mind. molly didn’t for a minute think you would.”
“what possessed you to do such a fool thing?” he asked roughly.
“i don’t know. when i saw her coming down, i wanted to try it. it looked exciting. didn’t i hold myself as well as she did?”
hedger shrugged his shoulders, but in his heart he forgave her.
the return boat was not crowded, though the boats that passed them, going out, were packed to the rails. the sun was setting. boys and girls sat on the long benches with their arms about each other, singing. eden felt a strong wish to propitiate her companion, to be alone with him. she had been curiously wrought up by her balloon trip; it was a lark, but not very satisfying unless one came back to something after the flight. she wanted to be admired and adored. though eden said nothing, and sat with her arms limp on the rail in front of her, looking languidly at the rising silhouette of the city and the bright path of the sun, hedger felt a strange drawing near to her. if he but brushed her white skirt with his knee, there was an instant communication between them, such as there had never been before. they did not talk at all, but when they went over the gang-plank she took his arm and kept her shoulder close to his. he felt as if they were enveloped in a highly charged atmosphere, an invisible network of subtle, almost painful sensibility. they had somehow taken hold of each other.
an hour later, they were dining in the back garden of a little french hotel on ninth street, long since passed away. it was cool and leafy there, and the mosquitoes were not very numerous. a party of south americans at another table were drinking champagne, and eden murmured that she thought she would like some, if it were not too expensive. “perhaps it will make me think i am in the balloon again. that was a very nice feeling. you’ve forgiven me, haven’t you?”
hedger gave her a quick straight look from under his black eyebrows, and something went over her that was like a chill, except that it was warm and feathery. she drank most of the wine; her companion was indifferent to it. he was talking more to her tonight than he had ever done before. she asked him about a new picture she had seen in his room; a queer thing full of stiff, supplicating female figures. “it’s indian, isn’t it?”
“yes. i call it rain spirits, or maybe, indian rain. in the southwest, where i’ve been a good deal, the indian traditions make women have to do with the rain-fall. they were supposed to control it, somehow, and to be able to find springs, and make moisture come out of the earth. you see i’m trying to learn to paint what people think and feel; to get away from all that photographic stuff. when i look at you, i don’t see what a camera would see, do i?”
“how can i tell?”
“well, if i should paint you, i could make you understand what i see.” for the second time that day hedger crimsoned unexpectedly, and his eyes fell and steadily contemplated a dish of little radishes. “that particular picture i got from a story a mexican priest told me; he said he found it in an old manuscript book in a monastery down there, written by some spanish missionary, who got his stories from the aztecs. this one he called ‘the forty lovers of the queen,’ and it was more or less about rain-making.”
“aren’t you going to tell it to me?” eden asked.
hedger fumbled among the radishes. “i don’t know if it’s the proper kind of story to tell a girl.”
she smiled; “oh, forget about that! i’ve been balloon riding today. i like to hear you talk.”
her low voice was flattering. she had seemed like clay in his hands ever since they got on the boat to come home. he leaned back in his chair, forgot his food, and, looking at her intently, began to tell his story, the theme of which he somehow felt was dangerous tonight.
the tale began, he said, somewhere in ancient mexico, and concerned the daughter of a king. the birth of this princess was preceded by unusual portents. three times her mother dreamed that she was delivered of serpents, which betokened that the child she carried would have power with the rain gods. the serpent was the symbol of water. the princess grew up dedicated to the gods, and wise men taught her the rain-making mysteries. she was with difficulty restrained from men and was guarded at all times, for it was the law of the thunder that she be maiden until her marriage. in the years of her adolescence, rain was abundant with her people. the oldest man could not remember such fertility. when the princess had counted eighteen summers, her father went to drive out a war party that harried his borders on the north and troubled his prosperity. the king destroyed the invaders and brought home many prisoners. among the prisoners was a young chief, taller than any of his captors, of such strength and ferocity that the king’s people came a day’s journey to look at him. when the princess beheld his great stature, and saw that his arms and breast were covered with the figures of wild animals, bitten into the skin and coloured, she begged his life from her father. she desired that he should practise his art upon her, and prick upon her skin the signs of rain and lightning and thunder, and stain the wounds with herb-juices, as they were upon his own body. for many days, upon the roof of the king’s house, the princess submitted herself to the bone needle, and the women with her marvelled at her fortitude. but the princess was without shame before the captive, and it came about that he threw from him his needles and his stains, and fell upon the princess to violate her honour; and her women ran down from the roof screaming, to call the guard which stood at the gateway of the king’s house, and none stayed to protect their mistress.
when the guard came, the captive was thrown into bonds, and he was gelded, and his tongue was torn out, and he was given for a slave to the rain princess.
the country of the aztecs to the east was tormented by thirst, and their king, hearing much of the rain-making arts of the princess, sent an embassy to her father, with presents and an offer of marriage. so the princess went from her father to be the queen of the aztecs, and she took with her the captive, who served her in everything with entire fidelity and slept upon a mat before her door.
the king gave his bride a fortress on the outskirts of the city, whither she retired to entreat the rain gods. this fortress was called the queen’s house, and on the night of the new moon the queen came to it from the palace. but when the moon waxed and grew toward the round, because the god of thunder had had his will of her, then the queen returned to the king. drought abated in the country and rain fell abundantly by reason of the queen’s power with the stars.
when the queen went to her own house she took with her no servant but the captive, and he slept outside her door and brought her food after she had fasted. the queen had a jewel of great value, a turquoise that had fallen from the sun, and had the image of the sun upon it. and when she desired a young man whom she had seen in the army or among the slaves, she sent the captive to him with the jewel, for a sign that he should come to her secretly at the queen’s house upon business concerning the welfare of all. and some, after she had talked with them, she sent away with rewards; and some she took into her chamber and kept them by her for one night or two. afterward she called the captive and bade him conduct the youth by the secret way he had come, underneath the chambers of the fortress. but for the going away of the queen’s lovers the captive took out the bar that was beneath a stone in the floor of the passage, and put in its stead a rush-reed, and the youth stepped upon it and fell through into a cavern that was the bed of an underground river, and whatever was thrown into it was not seen again. in this service nor in any other did the captive fail the queen.
but when the queen sent for the captain of the archers, she detained him four days in her chamber, calling often for food and wine, and was greatly content with him. on the fourth day she went to the captive outside her door and said: “tomorrow take this man up by the sure way, by which the king comes, and let him live.”
in the queen’s door were arrows, purple and white. when she desired the king to come to her publicly, with his guard, she sent him a white arrow; but when she sent the purple, he came secretly, and covered himself with his mantle to be hidden from the stone gods at the gate. on the fifth night that the queen was with her lover, the captive took a purple arrow to the king, and the king came secretly and found them together. he killed the captain with his own hand, but the queen he brought to public trial. the captive, when he was put to the question, told on his fingers forty men that he had let through the underground passage into the river. the captive and the queen were put to death by fire, both on the same day, and afterward there was scarcity of rain.
eden bower sat shivering a little as she listened. hedger was not trying to please her, she thought, but to antagonize and frighten her by his brutal story. she had often told herself that his lean, big-boned lower jaw was like his bull-dog’s, but tonight his face made caesar’s most savage and determined expression seem an affectation. now she was looking at the man he really was. nobody’s eyes had ever defied her like this. they were searching her and seeing everything; all she had concealed from livingston, and from the millionaire and his friends, and from the newspaper men. he was testing her, trying her out, and she was more ill at ease than she wished to show.
“that’s quite a thrilling story,” she said at last, rising and winding her scarf about her throat. “it must be getting late. almost every one has gone.”
they walked down the avenue like people who have quarrelled, or who wish to get rid of each other. hedger did not take her arm at the street crossings, and they did not linger in the square. at her door he tried none of the old devices of the livingston boys. he stood like a post, having forgotten to take off his hat, gave her a harsh, threatening glance, muttered “goodnight,” and shut his own door noisily.
there was no question of sleep for eden bower. her brain was working like a machine that would never stop. after she undressed, she tried to calm her nerves by smoking a cigarette, lying on the divan by the open window. but she grew wider and wider awake, combating the challenge that had flamed all evening in hedger’s eyes. the balloon had been one kind of excitement, the wine another; but the thing that had roused her, as a blow rouses a proud man, was the doubt, the contempt, the sneering hostility with which the painter had looked at her when he told his savage story. crowds and balloons were all very well, she reflected, but woman’s chief adventure is man. with a mind over active and a sense of life over strong, she wanted to walk across the roofs in the starlight, to sail over the sea and face at once a world of which she had never been afraid.
hedger must be asleep; his dog had stopped sniffing under the double doors. eden put on her wrapper and slippers and stole softly down the hall over the old carpet; one loose board creaked just as she reached the ladder. the trap-door was open, as always on hot nights. when she stepped out on the roof she drew a long breath and walked across it, looking up at the sky. her foot touched something soft; she heard a low growl, and on the instant caesar’s sharp little teeth caught her ankle and waited. his breath was like steam on her leg. nobody had ever intruded upon his roof before, and he panted for the movement or the word that would let him spring his jaw. instead, hedger’s hand seized his throat.
“wait a minute. i’ll settle with him,” he said grimly. he dragged the dog toward the manhole and disappeared. when he came back, he found eden standing over by the dark chimney, looking away in an offended attitude.
“i caned him unmercifully,” he panted. “of course you didn’t hear anything; he never whines when i beat him. he didn’t nip you, did he?”
“i don’t know whether he broke the skin or not,” she answered aggrievedly, still looking off into the west.
“if i were one of your friends in white pants, i’d strike a match to find whether you were hurt, though i know you are not, and then i’d see your ankle, wouldn’t i?”
“i suppose so.”
he shook his head and stood with his hands in the pockets of his old painting jacket. “i’m not up to such boy-tricks. if you want the place to yourself, i’ll clear out. there are plenty of places where i can spend the night, what’s left of it. but if you stay here and i stay here — ” he shrugged his shoulders.
eden did not stir, and she made no reply. her head drooped slightly, as if she were considering. but the moment he put his arms about her they began to talk, both at once, as people do in an opera. the instant avowal brought out a flood of trivial admissions. hedger confessed his crime, was reproached and forgiven, and now eden knew what it was in his look that she had found so disturbing of late.
standing against the black chimney, with the sky behind and blue shadows before, they looked like one of hedger’s own paintings of that period; two figures, one white and one dark, and nothing whatever distinguishable about them but that they were male and female. the faces were lost, the contours blurred in shadow, but the figures were a man and a woman, and that was their whole concern and their mysterious beauty, — it was the rhythm in which they moved, at last, along the roof and down into the dark hole; he first, drawing her gently after him. she came down very slowly. the excitement and bravado and uncertainty of that long day and night seemed all at once to tell upon her. when his feet were on the carpet and he reached up to lift her down, she twined her arms about his neck as after a long separation, and turned her face to him, and her lips, with their perfume of youth and passion.
one saturday afternoon hedger was sitting in the window of eden’s music room. they had been watching the pigeons come wheeling over the roofs from their unknown feeding grounds.
“why,” said eden suddenly, “don’t we fix those big doors into your studio so they will open? then, if i want you, i won’t have to go through the hall. that illustrator is loafing about a good deal of late.”
“i’ll open them, if you wish. the bolt is on your side.”
“isn’t there one on yours, too?”
“no. i believe a man lived there for years before i came in, and the nurse used to have these rooms herself. naturally, the lock was on the lady’s side.”
eden laughed and began to examine the bolt. “it’s all stuck up with paint.” looking about, her eye lighted upon a bronze buddah which was one of the nurse’s treasures. taking him by his head, she struck the bolt a blow with his squatting posteriors. the two doors creaked, sagged, and swung weakly inward a little way, as if they were too old for such escapades. eden tossed the heavy idol into a stuffed chair. “that’s better,” she exclaimed exultantly. “so the bolts are always on the lady’s side? what a lot society takes for granted!”
hedger laughed, sprang up and caught her arms roughly. “whoever takes you for granted — did anybody, ever?”
“everybody does. that’s why i’m here. you are the only one who knows anything about me. now i’ll have to dress if we’re going out for dinner.”
he lingered, keeping his hold on her. “but i won’t always be the only one, eden bower. i won’t be the last.”
“no, i suppose not,” she said carelessly. “but what does that matter? you are the first.”
as a long, despairing whine broke in the warm stillness, they drew apart. caesar, lying on his bed in the dark corner, had lifted his head at this invasion of sunlight, and realized that the side of his room was broken open, and his whole world shattered by change. there stood his master and this woman, laughing at him! the woman was pulling the long black hair of this mightiest of men, who bowed his head and permitted it.
