17
Martin arrived in London and put up at the Savoy; he noticed the crowds of fine young fellows and beautifully dressed women.
“Is there anything unusual going on tonight?”
“Yes,” said the polite young clerk, “a dinner and dance, in honor of Mrs. Garrison, an American lady.”
Julie had been received by the Ambassador in London with great cordiality, on account of his old friendship for Jimmie Garrison. Mary wrote to Mr. Garrison:
You have all reason to be well satisfied with your wife. We have done the right thing. She is enjoying herself. She looks like a young girl; the element which disturbed her has disappeared. I find her so much more normal.
The letter never reached Floyd.
Martin stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Julie, who was surrounded by eager applicants, waiting their turn to dance with the “silver-haired beauty.” He took in the soft white neck, the dimpled arms, the small classic head, and that something in the curve of her mouth and yielding smile—a triumphant sensuality. She swept past him. He could have touched her; he stood motionless.
Mary was up early the next morning. She stood looking at Julie, in a deep sleep, her hair falling loose, enveloping her in a veil of unreality; then she shut the door softly and went into the salon. Waiting for her simple breakfast, she watched the passing busses and pedestrians in the street below. All large cities are the same, but different, like people; each individuality giving another form to the Image or material symbol. London has a distinct personality; nobility of character is unmistakably stamped upon it.
The door opened; she turned and saw Martin. There was a momentary fear; then she was her quiet self again. Martin apologized for startling her. They measured each other; he saw an enemy.
“Why are you so antagonistic to me?”
“I’m never antagonistic without reason?”
“What reason have I given you?”
She looked keenly at him. He was well groomed—a clean-shaven, intense face, fascinating for some women; he repelled Mary. He has courage to show his mouth, she thought.
“I have been sent here by Mrs. Garrison’s doctor; she has had a serious illness, you know that.”
“Yes.”
“She may at any time fall back into the same condition. I don’t want her to know you are here.”
“Why?”
There was a gleam of humor in his eyes; it angered her. Why should she play policy with him?
“Because your presence may excite her. You are Mr. Garrison’s friend. I hope you will take my advice and not try to see her until she has finished her cure.”
“What cure?”
“She has been sent to a place in Switzerland called Val Sinestra, to drink arsenic water; you see I am keeping nothing from you.”
“Very kind, I could easily find out. Val Sinestra?” The name was familiar.
She stood with her hand on the door-knob waiting for him to go.
“Val Sinestra. I will write her.”
“I have orders to withhold any communications which may excite her.”
“Orders from her husband?”
Her eyes shot fire at him....
He went back to his room, took out of his bag the bundle of old letters. Yes, that was the name, “Val Sinestra”; it was Destiny.
There were two sides to Martin: a fiercely brutal realism, and a mysticism, instinctively concealed. As a boy, he would lie night after night, his eyes wide open; visions came and faded. It was always the same struggle with an unseen horror. He would awaken from a restless sleep, his face damp with tears. Those days he was very silent; his stepmother called them his sullen fits. As he grew older the visions vanished, but he had hours of deep abstraction, when reality slipped away from him.
He sat in his room, the banal colored post-card of the two young peasants in his hand. There was a sudden consciousness of Liberation; the other self flew out and away through walls, over seas, over mountain peaks, soaring, soaring. He sat there for hours motionless.
That evening the hotel clerk handed Miss Mary a note. It contained one line scrawled on half a sheet of paper.
“Am leaving for Paris.”
She was very glad, she wondered how far it had gone between those two. The responsibility was heavy.