when violet melrose had said to susy branch, the winter beforein new york: "but why on earth don't you and nick go to mylittle place at versailles for the honeymoon? i'm off to china,and you could have it to yourselves all summer," the offer hadbeen tempting enough to make the lovers waver.
it was such an artless ingenuous little house, so full of thedemoralizing simplicity of great wealth, that it seemed to susyjust the kind of place in which to take the first steps inrenunciation. but nick had objected that paris, at that time ofyear, would be swarming with acquaintances who would hunt themdown at all hours; and susy's own experience had led her toremark that there was nothing the very rich enjoyed more thantaking pot-luck with the very poor. they therefore gavestrefford's villa the preference, with an inward proviso (onsusy's part) that violet's house might very conveniently servetheir purpose at another season.
these thoughts were in her mind as she drove up to mrs.
melrose's door on a rainy afternoon late in august, her boxespiled high on the roof of the cab she had taken at the station.
she had travelled straight through from venice, stopping inmilan just long enough to pick up a reply to the telegram shehad despatched to the perfect housekeeper whose permanentpresence enabled mrs. melrose to say: "oh, when i'm sick ofeverything i just rush off without warning to my little shantyat versailles, and live there all alone on scrambled eggs."the perfect house-keeper had replied to susy's enquiry: "amsure mrs. melrose most happy"; and susy, without furtherthought, had jumped into a versailles train, and now stood inthe thin rain before the sphinx-guarded threshold of thepavilion.
the revolving year had brought around the season at which mrs.
melrose's house might be convenient: no visitors were to befeared at versailles at the end of august, and though susy'sreasons for seeking solitude were so remote from those she hadonce prefigured, they were none the less cogent. to be alone--alone! after those first exposed days when, in the persistentpresence of fred gillow and his satellites, and in the mockingradiance of late summer on the lagoons, she had fumed and turnedabout in her agony like a trapped animal in a cramping cage, tobe alone had seemed the only respite, the one craving: to bealone somewhere in a setting as unlike as possible to thesensual splendours of venice, under skies as unlike its azureroof. if she could have chosen she would have crawled away intoa dingy inn in a rainy northern town, where she had never beenand no one knew her. failing that unobtainable luxury, here shewas on the threshold of an empty house, in a deserted place,under lowering skies. she had shaken off fred gillow, sulkilydeparting for his moor (where she had half-promised to join himin september); the prince, young breckenridge, and the fewremaining survivors of the venetian group, had dispersed in thedirection of the engadine or biarritz; and now she could atleast collect her wits, take stock of herself, and prepare thecountenance with which she was to face the next stage in hercareer. thank god it was raining at versailles!
the door opened, she heard voices in the drawing-room, and aslender languishing figure appeared on the threshold.
"darling!" violet melrose cried in an embrace, drawing her intothe dusky perfumed room.
"but i thought you were in china!" susy stammered.
"in china ... in china," mrs. melrose stared with dreamy eyes,and susy remembered her drifting disorganised life, a life moreplanless, more inexplicable than that of any of the otherephemeral beings blown about upon the same winds of pleasure.
"well, madam, i thought so myself till i got a wire from mrs.
melrose last evening," remarked the perfect house-keeper,following with susy's handbag.
mrs. melrose clutched her cavernous temples in her attenuatedhands. "of course, of course! i had meant to go to china--no,india .... but i've discovered a genius ... and genius, youknow ...." unable to complete her thought, she sank down upon apillowy divan, stretched out an arm, cried: "fulmer! fulmer!"and, while susy lansing stood in the middle of the room withwidening eyes, a man emerged from the more deeply cushioned andscented twilight of some inner apartment, and she saw withsurprise nat fulmer, the good nat fulmer of the new hampshirebungalow and the ubiquitous progeny, standing before her inlordly ease, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette between hislips, his feet solidly planted in the insidious depths of one ofviolet melrose's white leopard skins.
"susy!" he shouted with open arms; and mrs. melrose murmured:
"you didn't know, then? you hadn't heard of his masterpieces?"in spite of herself, susy burst into a laugh. "is nat yourgenius?"mrs. melrose looked at her reproachfully.
fulmer laughed. "no; i'm grace's. but mrs. melrose has beenour providence, and ....""providence?" his hostess interrupted. "don't talk as if youwere at a prayer-meeting! he had an exhibition in new york ...
it was the most fabulous success. he's come abroad to makestudies for the decoration of my music-room in new york. ursulagillow has given him her garden-house at roslyn to do. and mrs.
bockheimer's ball-room--oh, fulmer, where are the cartoons?"she sprang up, tossed about some fashion-papers heaped on alacquer table, and sank back exhausted by the effort. "i'd gotas far as brindisi. i've travelled day and night to be here tomeet him," she declared. "but, you darling," and she held out acaressing hand to susy, "i'm forgetting to ask if you've hadtea?"an hour later, over the tea-table, susy already felt herselfmysteriously reabsorbed into what had so long been her nativeelement. ellie vanderlyn had brought a breath of it to venice;but susy was then nourished on another air, the air of nick'spresence and personality; now that she was abandoned, left againto her own devices, she felt herself suddenly at the mercy ofthe influences from which she thought she had escaped.
in the queer social whirligig from which she had so lately fled,it seemed natural enough that a shake of the box should havetossed nat fulmer into celebrity, and sent violet melrosechasing back from the ends of the earth to bask in his success.
susy knew that mrs. melrose belonged to the class of moralparasites; for in that strange world the parts were sometimesreversed, and the wealthy preyed upon the pauper. whereverthere was a reputation to batten on, there poor violet appeared,a harmless vampire in pearls who sought only to feed on thenotoriety which all her millions could not create for her. anyone less versed than susy in the shallow mysteries of her littleworld would have seen in violet melrose a baleful enchantress,in nat fulmer her helpless victim. susy knew better. violet,poor violet, was not even that. the insignificant ellievanderlyn, with her brief trivial passions, her artless mixtureof amorous and social interests, was a woman with a purpose, acreature who fulfilled herself; but violet was only a driftinginterrogation.
and what of fulmer? mustering with new eyes his short sturdily-built figure, his nondescript bearded face, and the eyes thatdreamed and wandered, and then suddenly sank into you likeclaws, susy seemed to have found the key to all his years ofdogged toil, his indifference to neglect, indifference topoverty, indifference to the needs of his growing family ....
yes: for the first time she saw that he looked commonplaceenough to be a genius--was a genius, perhaps, even though it wasviolet melrose who affirmed it! susy looked steadily at fulmer,their eyes met, and he smiled at her faintly through his beard.
"yes, i did discover him--i did," mrs. melrose was insisting,from the depths of the black velvet divan in which she lay sunklike a wan nereid in a midnight sea. "you mustn't believe aword that ursula gillow tells you about having pounced on his'spring snow storm' in a dark corner of the american artists'
exhibition--skied, if you please! they skied him less than ayear ago! and naturally ursula never in her life looked higherthan the first line at a picture-show. and now she actuallypretends ... oh, for pity's sake don't say it doesn't matter,fulmer! your saying that just encourages her, and makes peoplethink she did. when, in reality, any one who saw me at theexhibition on varnishing-day .... who? well, eddybreckenridge, for instance. he was in egypt, you say? perhapshe was! as if one could remember the people about one, whensuddenly one comes upon a great work of art, as st. paul did--didn't he?--and the scales fell from his eyes. well ... that'sexactly what happened to me that day ... and ursula, everybodyknows, was down at roslyn at the time, and didn't come up forthe opening of the exhibition at all. and fulmer sits there andlaughs, and says it doesn't matter, and that he'll paint anotherpicture any day for me to discover!"susy had rung the door-bell with a hand trembling witheagerness--eagerness to be alone, to be quiet, to stare hersituation in the face, and collect herself before she came outagain among her kind. she had stood on the door-step, coweringamong her bags, counting the instants till a step sounded andthe door-knob turned, letting her in from the searching glare ofthe outer world .... and now she had sat for an hour inviolet's drawing-room, in the very house where her honey-moonmight have been spent; and no one had asked her where she hadcome from, or why she was alone, or what was the key to thetragedy written on her shrinking face ....
that was the way of the world they lived in. nobody questioned,nobody wondered any more-because nobody had time to remember.
the old risk of prying curiosity, of malicious gossip, wasvirtually over: one was left with one's drama, one's disaster,on one's hands, because there was nobody to stop and notice thelittle shrouded object one was carrying. as susy watched thetwo people before her, each so frankly unaffected by herpresence, violet melrose so engrossed in her feverish pursuit ofnotoriety, fulmer so plunged in the golden sea of his success,she felt like a ghost making inaudible and imperceptible appealsto the grosser senses of the living.
"if i wanted to be alone," she thought, "i'm alone enough, inall conscience." there was a deathly chill in such security.
she turned to fulmer.
"and grace?"he beamed back without sign of embarrassment. "oh, she's here,naturally--we're in paris, kids and all. in a pension, where wecan polish up the lingo. but i hardly ever lay eyes on her,because she's as deep in music as i am in paint; it was as big achance for her as for me, you see, and she's making the most ofit, fiddling and listening to the fiddlers. well, it's aconsiderable change from new hampshire." he looked at herdreamily, as if making an intense effort to detach himself fromhis dream, and situate her in the fading past. "remember thebungalow? and nick--ah, how's nick?" he brought outtriumphantly.
"oh, yes--darling nick?" mrs. melrose chimed in; and susy, herhead erect, her cheeks aflame, declared with resonance: "mostawfully well--splendidly!""he's not here, though?" from fulmer.
"no. he's off travelling--cruising."mrs. melrose's attention was faintly roused. "with anybodyinteresting?""no; you wouldn't know them. people we met ...." she did nothave to continue, for her hostess's gaze had again strayed.
"and you've come for your clothes, i suppose, darling? don'tlisten to people who say that skirts are to be wider. i'vediscovered a new woman--a genius--and she absolutely swathesyou.... her name's my secret; but we'll go to her together."susy rose from her engulphing armchair. "do you mind if i go upto my room? i'm rather tired--coming straight through.""of course, dear. i think there are some people coming todinner ... mrs. match will tell you. she has such a memory ....
fulmer, where on earth are those cartoons of the music-room?"their voices pursued susy upstairs, as, in mrs. match'sperpendicular wake, she mounted to the white-panelled room withits gay linen hangings and the low bed heaped with morecushions.
"if we'd come here," she thought, "everything might have beendifferent." and she shuddered at the sumptuous memories of thepalazzo vanderlyn, and the great painted bedroom where she hadmet her doom.
mrs. match, hoping she would find everything, and mentioningthat dinner was not till nine, shut her softly in among herterrors.
"find everything?" susy echoed the phrase. oh, yes, she wouldalways find everything: every time the door shut on her now,and the sound of voices ceased, her memories would be therewaiting for her, every one of them, waiting quietly, patiently,obstinately, like poor people in a doctor's office, the peoplewho are always last to be attended to, but whom nothing willdiscourage or drive away, people to whom time is nothing,fatigue nothing, hunger nothing, other engagements nothing: whojust wait .... thank heaven, after all, that she had not foundthe house empty, if, whenever she returned to her room, she wasto meet her memories there!
it was just a week since nick had left her. during that week,crammed with people, questions, packing, explaining, evading,she had believed that in solitude lay her salvation. now sheunderstood that there was nothing she was so unprepared for, sounfitted for. when, in all her life, had she ever been alone?
and how was she to bear it now, with all these ravening memoriesbesetting her!
dinner not till nine? what on earth was she to do till nineo'clock? she knelt before her boxes, and feverishly began tounpack.
gradually, imperceptibly, the subtle influences of her old lifewere stealing into her. as she pulled out her tossed andcrumpled dresses she remembered violet's emphatic warning:
"don't believe the people who tell you that skirts are going tobe wider." were hers, perhaps, too wide as it was? she lookedat her limp raiment, piling itself up on bed and sofa, andunderstood that, according to violet's standards, and that ofall her set, those dresses, which nick had thought so originaland exquisite, were already commonplace and dowdy, fit only tobe passed on to poor relations or given to one's maid. and susywould have to go on wearing them till they fell to bits-orelse .... well, or else begin the old life again in some newform ....
she laughed aloud at the turn of her thoughts. dresses? howlittle they had mattered a few short weeks ago! and now,perhaps, they would again be one of the foremost considerationsin her life. how could it be otherwise, if she were to returnagain to her old dependence on ellie vanderlyn, ursula gillow,violet melrose? and beyond that, only the bockheimers and theirkind awaited her ....
a knock on the door--what a relief! it was mrs. match again,with a telegram. to whom had susy given her new address? witha throbbing heart she tore open the envelope and read:
"shall be in paris friday for twenty-four hours where can i seeyou write nouveau luxe."ah, yes--she remembered now: she had written to strefford! andthis was his answer: he was coming. she dropped into a chair,and tried to think. what on earth had she said in her letter?
it had been mainly, of course, one of condolence; but now sheremembered having added, in a precipitate postscript: "i can'tgive your message to nick, for he's gone off with the hickses-idon't know where, or for how long. it's all right, of course:
it was in our bargain."she had not meant to put in that last phrase; but as she sealedher letter to strefford her eye had fallen on nick's missive,which lay beside it. nothing in her husband's brief lines hadembittered her as much as the allusion to strefford. it seemedto imply that nick's own plans were made, that his own futurewas secure, and that he could therefore freely and handsomelytake thought for hers, and give her a pointer in the rightdirection. sudden rage had possessed her at the thought: whereshe had at first read jealousy she now saw only a coldprovidence, and in a blur of tears she had scrawled herpostscript to strefford. she remembered that she had not evenasked him to keep her secret. well--after all, what would itmatter if people should already know that nick had left her?
their parting could not long remain a mystery, and the fact thatit was known might help her to keep up a presence ofindifference.
"it was in the bargain--in the bargain," rang through her brainas she re-read strefford's telegram. she understood that he hadsnatched the time for this hasty trip solely in the hope ofseeing her, and her eyes filled. the more bitterly she thoughtof nick the more this proof of strefford's friendship moved her.
the clock, to her relief, reminded her that it was time to dressfor dinner. she would go down presently, chat with violet andfulmer, and with violet's other guests, who would probably beodd and amusing, and too much out of her world to embarrass herby awkward questions. she would sit at a softly-lit table,breathe delicate scents, eat exquisite food (trust mrs. match!),and be gradually drawn again under the spell of her oldassociations. anything, anything but to be alone ....
she dressed with even more than her habitual care, reddened herlips attentively, brushed the faintest bloom of pink over herdrawn cheeks, and went down--to meet mrs. match coming up with atray.
"oh, madam, i thought you were too tired .... i was bringing itup to you myself--just a little morsel of chicken."susy, glancing past her, saw, through the open door, that thelamps were not lit in the drawing-room.
"oh, no, i'm not tired, thank you. i thought mrs. melroseexpected friends at dinner!""friends at dinner-to-night?" mrs. match heaved a despairingsigh. sometimes, the sigh seemed to say, her mistress put toogreat a strain upon her. "why, mrs. melrose and mr. fulmer wereengaged to dine in paris. they left an hour ago. mrs. melrosetold me she'd told you," the house-keeper wailed.
susy kept her little fixed smile. "i must have misunderstood.
in that case ... well, yes, if it's no trouble, i believe i willhave my tray upstairs. "slowly she turned, and followed the housekeeper up into thedread solitude she had just left.
