16
After Julie left, Floyd spent his evenings at the club; there were many strange to him. The membership had increased; it was still a mark of class to be seen lounging at the club-window in the afternoon.
He missed Martin. He was different from the others. When he raved against the world, he said things in bad taste, but often the bitter truth. With a sudden impulse, he wrote a few lines, asking him to lunch at the club the following day. He’d be furious when he heard Julie had sailed. He’d say, “You might have given me a chance to send her a few flowers.” Floyd smiled; yes, he liked Martin; more than that, he loved him; he was interwoven with the memories of his childhood, his youth. He wished that episode had not happened when Julie was ill, but she was unconscious of it. She had never in all that time mentioned his name. It was all in his own evil mind. He mentally asked pardon of Martin. The next morning at breakfast he had a feeling of agreeable expectancy.
The boy was crying upstairs. Bridget couldn’t quiet him.
“What’s the matter up there?”
The child fretted for his mother. He had caught a cold, and had been kept in the house for some days. He was standing with his boat in his hands, sobbing piteously. Floyd pacified him by running the water into the bath which was sunken in the center of a tiled room. The boy handed his father the boat.
Floyd turned it over in his hand.
“A costly toy. Mamma is good to you.”
“Mamma didn’t give it to me.”
“Yes she did—Mamma gives you everything.”
“She didn’t,” insisted the boy. “My Uncle Martin bought it for me.”
“Your Uncle Martin?”
“Yes. He came every day to the Park, and then he put a note in the cabin, telling Mamma to come, and she came.”
“Where is the cabin?”
“You can’t find it, nobody but me.”
The boy in great glee pressed the spring.
“There’s no letter there!”
“Oh! no! I gave it to Mamma; she read it and tore it up.”
Floyd pushed the boy away. He was making a spy of his innocent child. Why didn’t Julie tell him?
“Did Mamma meet Uncle Martin in the Park every day?”
“No, not every day; she’d stay away sometimes because Uncle Martin scolded her and she’d cry. He loved me and petted me and said he was going to steal me away.”
“But you wouldn’t leave me, would you, Joseph?”
The boy meditated, and then told the truth.
“Perhaps I would, Papa, if Mamma came along; but I don’t think she’d come because Uncle Martin scolded her too much. I was mad at him and said ‘Uncle Martin, you’ll have to beg Mother’s pardon; I always do when I’m bad.’ Then Uncle Martin laughed and gave me such a long kiss and said, ‘There, take that to Mamma and it will be all right.’”
Floyd sat motionless with the boy in his arms. The little fellow’s eyes drooped, he slid down, pillowed his head on the big fur animal; those glassy eyes brought Floyd back to Mrs. Gonzola—why did she always watch Julie? He had never asked any questions about the unexpected call on the telephone. He had been deliriously happy; there was no room in his thoughts for the past.
He bent over the child, noting the beautiful powerful body; neither he nor Julie had great physical strength. The boy would be a giant. Why did Mrs. Gonzola press such a quick marriage? Why did she keep him away so much during their short engagement? Why did she want Julie to get “used” to the idea? As a child Julie liked Martin better; they’d disappear and he’d wander about looking for them, then go home disappointed. In his mad desire to get her, he had really done Martin an injustice; he should have waited. He didn’t do the square thing, because—he knew Martin would have won out! He bent lower over the boy—trying to find some clue in that innocent face! The blood rushed to his head—he must have it out with Martin—he couldn’t go on with evil suspicions of his wife, his friend. Martin was no liar! He always told the brutal truth, even if it were against himself.
The night brought sanity, consolation. Julie was foolish, but not criminal. Her religion wouldn’t let her do anything wrong. She went to Confession the day before her marriage; then he wondered—what did she really believe? She was by creed a Catholic, but she taught her boy his prayers in Hebrew.
He went early to the club and waited for Martin, who was late as usual. He looked at his watch, and idly took up the morning paper.
His eye caught a headline. “The Aquitania sailing with a distinguished crowd on board.”
What! the ship already back and sailing again? It was the usual summer rush; he knew most of the names. One riveted his gaze. He read it once, twice, three times; the paper dropped from his hand. He saw that name wherever he looked. Martin Steele had sailed on the Aquitania.
It was ten days before the next steamer crowded with pleasure-seekers sailed for England. At the last moment Floyd came on board, too late to have his name in the passenger list. The only cabin left was on the lowest deck inside. He went down, locked the door, unpacked his valise. Most of its space was taken up by a silver-mounted leather box—one would say an elegant toilette case. He opened it, took out a brace of shining pistols, examined each one carefully, and put it back in the box. He had no definite plan, but when a man catches a thief in his house he shoots him....