12
The next morning at breakfast he read the press headings.
“The old Garrison homestead destroyed by fire, a total loss, on account of Mr. Garrison’s neglect to renew the insurance. Fire caused by a cigarette or cigar stump thrown carelessly from one of the tall adjacent buildings. The house was a tinder box. Fortunately, the family had moved to their palatial residence on Park Avenue.”
He marked the notices with red pencil, and sent them up on his wife’s breakfast tray. He heard the maid knocking, and Julie’s voice saying “Come in.” He could see her opening the papers, reading the marked lines; there was a loud cry and a heavy fall; he went up quickly. She was lying on the floor rigid, the paper clutched in her hand; it was impossible to bring her to. He telephoned for Dr. McClaren, who came at once. Floyd told him about the fire in a few words.
“It must have been a great shock to her,” said the doctor.
“I don’t know,” answered Floyd. The doctor looked at him curiously, then went into Julie’s room.
He brought her to, insisted on her resting that day in bed, and said to Floyd, “She’ll be all right. There’s no cause for worry; I’ve seen her like that before.”
Julie believed with all her superstitious, secretive soul, that her hair turning white had been a punishment for giving in to her suppressed passion for Martin; and last night in that very hour of burning joy their house was in flames. “What did it mean? What was that unseen revengeful Power preparing for her?—perhaps another blow, a physical deformity?”
With a cry of terrible fear, she sprang out of bed, locked the door, stood before the long mirror examining herself closely, not like a beautiful woman exulting over her reflected beauty, but with the fear of a guilty soul seeking the brand of further punishment. “What now? What now?” Her body was spotless, like white marble with a delicate tracery of blue veins. She gave a long sigh of relief.
The reporters besieged the house. Floyd had the agony of seeing himself, his wife, his child in every newspaper. The weeklies had colored prints of the beautiful Mrs. Garrison. “She might have stepped out of a picture,” “a living Greuze,” “the grace of a French Dame de Salon,” “the Art of Conversation lives again”—then the Russian players arrived.
Julie did not get over the shock. Her nerves, always abnormal, snapped; she sank into a state of melancholy.
Floyd went up to her room one morning to tell her he wouldn’t be home to dinner; she was still in bed, crouching among the pillows.
“Are you waiting for Hippolyte?” There was a touch of irony in his voice.
“I’ve sent him away. I don’t want him any more.” Then she broke into sobs.
Floyd was glad to get that “shame” out of the house. Julie was beginning to mope again; she needed fresh air; he would look for a camp in the Adirondacks for the summer.
Julie brooded about her promise to Martin; the revulsion had set in as usual; she was again the mother, the conventional wife. She was afraid of his anger; she must keep away from him. All sorts of horrors took form in her diseased mind.
The clock struck twelve. The boy had gone to the Park with the nurse, a French girl, who spoke little English; they were late. She saw the child run over by a car, lying mangled under the wheels; she was in a paroxysm of fear, a distracted, neurasthenic woman.
“Mamma, see what I’ve got.”
She caught the boy in her arms, passionately kissing his eyes, his mouth, his hair, a handsome fellow, big for his age, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Mamma, Mamma!”
He took from Mademoiselle a beautiful, perfectly equipped motor boat.
Mademoiselle explained: “A big dark Monsieur ‘belhomme’ gave it to Joseph.” He said he was his Uncle Martin. He taught him to float and sink it. She couldn’t get the child away, that’s why they were so late. The boy took the boat to pieces and put it together again, with great dexterity. He was uncommonly intelligent.
“See, Mamma, this is the cabin.”
He pressed a spring which opened a little door in the bottom of the boat; within lay a neatly folded paper; the handwriting was Martin’s. Mademoiselle took the boy away, looking back furtively with her French comprehension at Madame. A few lines, begging, commanding her to come with the boy the following day.
She knew she would go; she couldn’t stay away. He would hold Joseph in his arms; she would take his kisses from the boy’s lips; her eyes gleamed. She would go; it would end as it must. She was lost! Hopelessly lost! She went to the Park every day for a week, leaving the maid at home; the boy was always there sailing his boat.
One day Martin took him up suddenly, pressed him in his arms, kissed him again and again. Julie looked on, the blood leaping into her face. They were her kisses. Then the boy put his arms around Martin, whispering, “I love you, Uncle Martin,” and fell asleep. Martin carried him to the car, motioned Julie to get in first, laid the child beside her, covered him up with the rug, then spoke in low tones of suppressed pain.
“You committed a crime against me, Julie. That boy should have been mine!”
All night and the next day, Julie had one of those terrible headaches; Floyd couldn’t bear her moans of pain....
Dr. McClaren took off his coat and goloshes, stopping on the spiral staircase to admire the beautiful colored glass windows. He found Julie crouching in a chair, her hands icy, her eyes roving restlessly.
“My dear Madame, I’m sorry to see you in this nervous state. What is it, tell me? I can’t help you unless I know! Is it your husband?”
“No, he is too good.”
“The boy, then?”
“No.”
“What is troubling you? Tell me.”
“Day and night I have a terrible fear that something dreadful is going to happen; I’ve had it often, but controlled it with a strong effort. Since the night of the fire it has come back with terrible force. I suffer tortures.”
“When you go out, do you feel as if someone were following you to do you harm?”
“Yes, yes,” she had her eyes fixed on the boat. It seemed to have a terrible fascination for her.
The doctor took the boat from the table, turning it over in his hands. He was thoughtful—puzzled.
“How perfectly they make these toys.”
“Yes, it floats and sinks like a real motor boat.” The suggestion gave the doctor an idea.
“Do you like the water?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Wouldn’t you like to take a long sea trip, to Europe, for instance?”
“I would like it very much.”
“I’ll speak to your husband about it.”
“No, no, I don’t want him.”
“You want to go without him?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward to catch her words which came in low gasps. “I want to—to slip away without anybody knowing. If you can persuade Floyd to let me go alone!—you’ll find him at his club.”
The doctor dropped off at the club that day and spoke to Floyd. He was sitting in the window gazing idly at the green square opposite; what Floyd saw there were flames mounting higher and higher; wherever he went they followed him, scorching him; the world was one great funeral pyre; the flames were drawing him in.
“Your wife is slipping back into the old condition of melancholia; we must prevent that.”
“Doctor, I do all I can.”
When he suggested a trip to Europe, Floyd gave a quick cry.
“No! no! I couldn’t!”
“I want her to go alone.” The same look of relief he had seen on Julie’s face. A pity; married so short a time. “I would like Miss Mary to go with her, but she is always so busy.”
Floyd was on his feet.
“She’ll go if I ask her; I’m sure she will.”