8
The Wednesday agreed on, arrived. Floyd left the house without seeing Julie; he was getting used to that; the entire morning she would be occupied with the boy, always in a wrapper with that disfiguring cap on her. She bathed, dressed, undressed the child like a professional nurse. Floyd protested in vain.
On the way downtown he telephoned the house.
“Is Madame awake yet?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Connect me with her room, will you?”
Julie called “Hello.” He thought her voice had more life in it than usual.
“Julie, do you remember I was to ask Colonel Garland to dinner tonight, but if you are still against it, I can postpone it.”
“Oh, no! The dinner is ordered.”
“Thank you.”
He dropped the receiver with a guilty feeling. Perhaps he had been too harsh. He didn’t know what to do about her; he was quite helpless; life was becoming unbearable.
Colonel Garland greeted Floyd with delight. He was talking to a tall man in his private office who came up and shook hands.
“You don’t remember me, Mr. Garrison?”
Floyd took in the tired face, the dark-rimmed eyes, the deep lines.
“Yes, I do! Are you still ‘sweating blood’ for money?”
“No, I’m sweating blood to keep it.”
“Have you any left?”
“A few drops, but I’ll be bled white if this goes on.”
He laughed mirthlessly, said “So-long,” and left.
The Colonel looked after him, speaking with a touch of pity and contempt.
“That fellow made a million during the War; it’s been going the other way for some time, and—he’s got a handsome, extravagant wife. Now—if we pull down those old shanties near the river, and build up big warehouses—”
“No! no! I’m not a wrecker; they bring enough for my modest wants.”
“That’s just what your father said twenty years ago. You’re getting very much like him.”
Floyd didn’t take that as a compliment. The men of twenty years ago were a century behind the times. Then, rather timidly, hoping for a refusal, he said:
“Will you come and take pot-luck with me tonight? My wife’s not well; she can’t join us—I must find some congenial occupation. We’ll talk it over.”
The Colonel was all animation.
“Politics! We need young men. We’ve got a job on our hands to rebuild the world.”
Late in the afternoon they went to the Republican Club for a cocktail from the Colonel’s private stock. There were the usual jokes about Prohibition being a good law—for others. On alighting from the car, Floyd was surprised to see the soft red gleam of the colored glass fixture over the porch. The filmy lace window curtains through which the light shone were not there when he left the house that morning; before he could take out his latch key, the door was swung open. The Jap in spotless white smiled a welcome; they entered the parlor—
“By God,” cried the Colonel, “this is something like. A beautiful color, that velvet.”
Floyd smiled. “Mulberry, they call it.”
The chairs, the sofa with its cushions, were like old friends; he saw again those well-loved water colors; his mother looking down at him, and through the door, the glimpse of a beautifully set dinner table—a picture covered for a long time, once more in the light.
Julie came swiftly toward them, extending her hand to the Colonel. She was in a state of excitement, like an actress who makes her début in a new rôle. Her color came and went. A crescent of black plaster deepened the darkness of her eyes. The despised hair revenged itself with its beauty; it was mounted in shining, rippling masses on the top of her head. She wore a soft white gown, embroidered with seed pearls, a train of gold sweeping the ground. Her arms and neck were free of ornament; in her corsage a large red American Beauty rose. At dinner she kept up a flow of small talk accentuated by soft glances, winning smiles. The Colonel listened as if every word were a new truth, the usual platitudes taking on a mysterious significance. He was sixty, held himself very erect, could easily be taken for ten years younger, and he loved the ladies.
Floyd was silent, trying to overcome a queer feeling. Was this gracious, smiling woman his wife? Was he sitting at his own table? Who was he, anyhow? The Colonel’s stentorian voice with its agreeable Southern accent broke in on his confused mental condition.
“If you will permit me to tell you how much I admire your perfect taste in dress. You know what suits you—an inspiration to powder your hair.”
“Oh,” laughed Julie, “it’s not powdered, it’s natural. It runs in our family to turn gray early. My father was white at twenty-one.”
The gallant Colonel turned this to his credit.
“My dear Mistress Garrison, Nature has been your Fairy Godmother; she has waved her wand over your head, bestowing one charm more, the gift of original beauty.”
The evening passed quickly in light persiflage, Floyd listening as if he were in the auditorium of a theatre. At the door the Colonel gave one look back. He could have fought a duel for her.
“We haven’t had a chance to talk business,” said Floyd.
“Who could, with such a radiant vision before us?” laughed the Colonel. “Come down to the office.”
Floyd went back to Julie.
“Thank you for making such a sacrifice.” It sounded foolish, but he didn’t know what to say.
She came closer to him. He was afraid to touch her; she was like a strange woman in his house. That soft sensual smile set him on fire. She slid into his arms; he kissed her neck, hair, her lips; she let herself be adored. His love had been ideal in those early wonderful days of his marriage. He reverenced his wife; he was afraid to repel her. He had heard of some men whose wives hated them for their lack of consideration. Julie laughed at his innocence. He often wondered if she appreciated being his first love; he couldn’t answer that now, after four years. He ceased trying to probe her soul; he worshipped her body.
In the physical intoxication of the next few months, he forgot all his plans for future activity. Love can be a despot or a liberator; Floyd was in chains again.