1
MARTIN STEELE came back to America after two years’ absence. He was known over there as the “Yankee Devil.” Danger seemed to attract him; he rushed through a rain of bullets and planted the flag in the face of the enemy. He was happy; the straining of nerve and sinew helped to quiet an inward restlessness. On landing he found a telegram from his mother; she wanted him to go up and see “The Museum” before coming to Boston. He tore up the telegram with an ugly scowl.
The corner of Broadway and Forty-second Street—gigantic waves of humanity passing, moving up, down, across—screeching automobiles emitting pestilential odors—rapidly changing electric signs—the only stagnation was in the air—it weighed on his chest, halted his breath. He stood with his hands deep in his pockets. There was something psychic going on within him; the boys who came home brought with them a strange consciousness: they had seen miracles.
He felt the leaden mentality oozing out from the crowd, became keenly conscious of the mixture of races; those tense, strained faces, looking straight ahead; the past forgotten; the future—who cares? “We build for today; the next man will build for his day.” “The Present” in electric letters of colored flames. “How am I to borrow or steal for—women—for wine. Prohibition?—ha! ha!—who takes that seriously; who takes anything seriously?”
Martin elbowed himself through the crowd; a soldier in khaki, people looked after him; a fine strong fellow from the prairies, seeing the sight of the Great White Way.
He mopped his forehead, saying to himself, “Where shall I go?”
He stood before the house where he was born, read the black and gold sign on the door.
“The Winthrop Museum. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday (admission free); other days fifty cents.” It was Friday.
The sleepy official handed him a card. Martin threw down his fifty cents and entered. There were a few stragglers strolling from case to case, mostly strangers. A large omnibus, “Seeing New York,” waited outside; the man on the box blew the horn.
“This is the house of the celebrated Winthrop family whose ancestors came over in the Mayflower. The owners have generously donated their historical relics to the city; ten minutes allowed for inspection.”
He looked at the old furniture, falling to pieces from want of repair; some were really family relics, but the parading of them—“who cares for other people’s old sticks”? The caretaker was putting on his hat to go when Martin spoke to him.
“I’m Mr. Steele. I’m going to close up this dugout.” He put ten dollars in the man’s hand. With one strong wrench he tore down the sign, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.
He stopped before the Garrison home; it was lit up inside. He opened the gate, shut it with a sharp click, and went up toward Fifth Avenue. The row of small brick houses were in a sorry plight. On Maud Ailsworth’s window there was a sign, “Table Board”; on the Gonzola mansion, “For Sale.” “The mother and grandfather dead, Julie married.” Then he bought the biggest basket of red roses he could find, and followed on the heels of the messenger.
Floyd was in the nursery, revelling in the beauty of mother and child—a wonderful Murillo picture. Julie laughed at his caressing epithets, “Two angels to take care of”—etc., etc., and all the rest a man like Floyd would naturally say to the young mother of his child. She went to dinner leaning on his arm. Julie was one of the rare women who become beautiful with motherhood; from the first moment of its consciousness, she was a changed being. The grief and horror of her double misfortune vanished; her eyes became larger, more brilliant. The dead white of her skin changed into a soft pink; the rippling hair shone, getting more and more rebellious, escaping in soft curls about her face.
She gave a cry of pleasure at the roses on the table.
“Oh! how gorgeous! Floyd, you mustn’t spoil me like this.”
“I didn’t send them.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, my word of honor.”
“Then who? I can’t think of anyone, unless—”
“Who?”
She fastened a rose in her dress, forgetting to answer.
The table was faultlessly set with fine damask. The heavy cut glass sparkled in the candle light. A pine wood fire threw a soft glimmer over the room; there was no other light. Floyd felt a sense of æsthetic satisfaction. He hated the big flats of the West Side with their electric illumination; he was glad he didn’t have to live in them. The bell rang.
“Who can that be at this hour?”
“You needn’t announce me, I’ll go right in.”
“Martin!”
Julie was on her feet looking for a way of escape. Floyd put her back in her seat.
“Stay where you are.”
Floyd’s hand went out to meet Martin’s; he’d come back from the front, and they had known each other all their lives.
“I landed today. I feel like a stranger in a foreign land. Will you let me have a bite with you?”
He hadn’t changed; heavily tanned; a little more muscular; a little louder. He grasped Julie’s hand, and held it fast. There was a slight heaving under the red rose; her cheeks had lost their color. He absorbed everything with those eyes of his. She felt the loose gown hanging from her shoulders, and drew it around her full bosom. He turned to Floyd, with a laughing question in his eyes. Floyd laughed back; he couldn’t help feeling a sense of triumph.
Martin was very entertaining, told amusing stories in French; there was something pathetic in his efforts to please. Julie took a childish delight in his medals. Floyd’s face clouded over; Martin took them from her hand.
“They mean nothing to me.”
“You should be proud of them,” insisted Julie. “They are a reward for bravery. You were brave. We read about you.”
“I wouldn’t give the others the satisfaction of thinking me a coward.”
“But you were afraid at first; it’s only natural.”
He turned and looked straight at her.
“No. What is there in life for me? It takes more courage to go on living.”
There was a long pause; Julie arose, said “good night.” Floyd went with her to the stairs, kissed her; Martin’s eyes followed them. Then Floyd threw himself into the big chair by the fire, forgetting everything but the dear woman, the dear child.
Martin sat puffing at his pipe; it was foul. Julie couldn’t bear a pipe. Floyd had given up his then he shut the door carefully, lit his pipe laughingly, saying something about a bad example. He was eager for more stories of war, carnage, murder.
“A wonderful experience. I envy you.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“I couldn’t leave Julie in her condition.”
There was a silence; then Martin spoke in a hard voice which conveyed repression.
“Your experience has been more wonderful than mine.”
He threw down his pipe, pacing the room, muttering broken sentences; there was a strange glitter in his eyes. He cursed everything, everybody.
“Patriotism, bah! We punched holes in that lie, sitting in our dugout waiting for the death call. Love of the soil; bah! I was born next door; another year you also will be driven out. Our children won’t even know the spot where their parents lived; what does it matter, anyhow? The farmer, bah! He values the soil as he does his cow, for what he can get out of it; it isn’t his land. He came over, bought it, because he couldn’t steal it, mortgaged it, misused it. The boys won’t go back to the farm. They want money, they’ll get it the next few years. The rest of the world will starve—America will wallow in the filthy stuff—not you, nor I—we’re pikers, that’s what we are; our fathers thought they left us rich; I could plunge in, reconstruct, sell out, gamble with my money, and make a fortune. What then?” He stood glaring at Floyd, a desperate, hopeless creature, Martin’s ravings always depressed him; Julie’s voice broke the oppressive silence.
“Floyd, bring Martin up to see the baby.”
He stood in the doorway like a bashful boy, Floyd put the child in his arms; he looked down at the little dark head against his arm, bent and kissed it, giving Julie a look of lightning rapidity. It scorched her.
Martin became a frequent visitor at the Garrisons’, running in often at inopportune moments.
Julie was sitting over the fire in the dining-room, the child asleep in a little pink-lined basket beside her. She leaned back; there was a feeling of lassitude, weariness; she had every reason to be happy; no woman could ask more; but why that longing to get away from her child, her husband, from herself? Why did she feel the walls of her life? She knew there was something wrong with her; she felt too intensely. Martin! Why had he come back? She was happy with Floyd; he was good, gentle; kind, so different; but Martin! Martin!
She heard his voice outside, she must get upstairs; she went swiftly to the door—too late—he was in the room taking her in with those terrible eyes.
“Why did you break in like this? It’s very inconsiderate. I am not fit to see strangers.”
She raised her arms above her head, twisting the thick ropes of falling hair, trying to fasten them. Her shawl fell away, disclosing the corsetless form, the open neck.
Waves of passion rushed through him.
“Don’t go! Give me one moment more, just one!” He caught at her shawl. A terrible shame burnt her. She staggered out, slamming the door after her. Martin pressed the shawl, warm from her body, to his face; the hot tears rolled down.
He didn’t come again for some time. One day Floyd met him at the club.
“Why don’t we see you at the house? We miss you.”
Martin’s eyes had a look of abstraction.
“Your home is like a nest just now. There is room in it only for two—and the little bird.” It was a beautiful thought; but that humor never lasted long with him. He said abruptly:
“I’ve sold my house. They are going to build a skyscraper. It will take away your light.”
Floyd’s face darkened.
“That won’t drive us out.”
“Why stay there? You can get a big profit.”
“I was born there; I want to die there.”
Martin laughed mockingly.
“A man who dies in the house where he was born should be ticketed and put into a museum.”