9
When it was known the Garrisons had “come back,” they were deluged with invitations.
“Do you want to go?”
“Of course, what’s the use of Paris gowns if I can’t make the other women green?” She was in good humor now, caressed, spoilt, every wish fulfilled. He gave her a new car, a gorgeous thing fitted up like a boudoir, trying to shake off a sickening consciousness that he was buying her favors. He pulled wires for a box at the opera (it was an achievement to get one); she rewarded him with a long kiss; he developed a prodigality which astounded the Colonel.
“You’re going it, my boy. You’re beyond your income.”
“Oh, sell something,” laughed Floyd. “I must have money.”
The Colonel didn’t like the flippant answer, the restless way. He wasn’t quite certain, but it seemed once or twice the boy had been drinking. He had noticed since Prohibition many sober men had taken to drink; psychologically interesting, the resistance to personal restraint....
The opening night of the opera, Julie was the centre of attraction. She had taken the family jewels out of the safe deposit. A great cluster of diamonds set in antique silver shone on her velvet bodice of old wine, a glittering aigrette in her hair which was no longer an old gray—treatment had changed it into the mat silver which one sees on the head of a marble statue, with life added to its charm. She stood in the box in her velvet wrap; Floyd took it off with a feeling of excitement. He felt the sensation she created; he was running a blooded mare for the first prize.
Maud sat in front with Tom Dillon. She had played her last trump in the game of matrimony. It: wasn’t a King now, but a Knave who cared for her; she was sure of that. For the rest, she looked into her mirror and saw her future; it spelt wrinkles.
“Who is that gorgeous creature?”
“Don’t you know your friend Julie Garrison?” She put up her lorgnette.
“What has she done with her hair?”
“Bleached it. Catch up, Maudy. A celebrated cocotte in Paris has made white hair the rage; she looks like one, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, she does—wonderful. I always said Julie had great possibilities; there’s something about her that attracts men. Look at Martin.”
He was standing against a post opposite the box. His eyes fastened on Julie, his mouth twisted into a derisive smile; the Colonel was there pouring out his usual compliments. Men were coming in and out, old club friends of Floyd’s, all eager to renew their acquaintance. Julie’s illness had upset all his calculations, but there was one cause for satisfaction: she had wanted him, he had saved her, she belonged to him, not Floyd. He was waiting for a propitious moment; she must tell Floyd the truth. He waited because he was not sure of her; after a long siege of fever, the blood cools off.
He dropped in one day at Hippolyte’s Parlor—he went there now to hear about Julie. “Madame was going to have a dinner party,”—he had made a supreme effort. The phenomenon of her hair had given him a great deal of thought. He was in his way a scientist; the psychic side of it interested him. “You must see her superb hair; it suits her to perfection. It gives the last touch of that ‘Je ne sais quoi’ which she lacked. It was caused in my opinion by some intense subconscious passion.” Martin bent over eagerly. “A psychic power which acts like the eruption of a volcano; it tears her, agonizes her, she struggles with it, is not quite able to translate it—yet— Her husband is a nice fellow, mais vous savez, Puritanism, the narrow path; he’ll never deceive her, nor pardon her if she deceives him. That little house is no frame for a woman like her. She needs life, sparkle, passion—Voila tout!”
During the next few months Hippolyte’s mademoiselle brought now and again a deep red rose, and set it in an exquisite glass vase on Julie’s dressing table. Julie asked no questions; her eyes glistened. She furtively put the rose to her lips; then she’d sit for hours under the hands of the French woman, massage, electric treatment, hot—cold, until her body exhaled an indefinable intoxicating perfume....
Maud and Tom made their way to the Garrison box. Julie, with a keen woman’s look, saw at once that Maud’s gown, jewelry, furs, were no longer imitations. Tom was evidently embarrassed and hung back. Floyd rather liked him; he was genuine; he didn’t disguise the fact that he was a rotter. He said, “I’m no good; take me as I am, or not at all.”
“What have you been doing all this time?”
“Oh! nothing much,” laughed Maud, “shopping, house hunting, getting married; we didn’t announce it, it wasn’t worth while.” Floyd grasped Tom’s hand.
“I couldn’t get her, any other way, so we called on the Judge—We’ve been married six weeks; so far it’s all right—I’m going to buy a house and put it in her name—If I don’t behave myself, she can kick me out.”
Maud was sitting in front with Julie, talking over joining the young matrons and giving a series of dinners.
Suddenly she said:
“Have you seen Martin Steele lately?”
“I’ve been ill a long time.”
“He’s here tonight.”
“Yes, I saw him standing at the back.”
“He looks awful, doesn’t he?”
Julie didn’t answer. Maud said afterwards to her husband: “Julie was always different from the rest of us; she was queer tonight, didn’t hear a word I said. I’m certain she’s not all there.”
As they were going out, they passed Martin.
“Come with us to the dancing club. Tom’s sure to take too much; you can help me get him home.”
Martin went, but it was Tom who had to take Martin home, abusingly drunk, fighting like a beast.
That night Julie had dreams, and talked in her sleep. She flung her arms around Floyd.
“I’m so glad you love me just the same.” Floyd was a happy man. He had finished his breakfast and was looking out of the front window, waiting for his wife to awaken.
“Floyd, Floyd.”
He went up the stairs three at a time.
She held out her arms to him.
“Floyd, we must move away from here; the street is getting impossible.” A crash of falling timbers next door strengthened her position.
“Julie! This is our home; you know how I love it. How can you ask me such a thing?”
He was losing his temper; she was on the verge of tears, and last night when he held her in his arms, he swore—they all do at those times.
“I’ll do anything for you, anything, but my home is a part of me; you don’t realize how I love it.”
“More than me?” She was pouting now, like a child.
“Oh, no!—different—you won’t ask me to leave it, will you?” It was pathetic, the appeal in the man’s voice.
“But I also loved my home; I left it for you.”
He was about to say, “It’s not the same. The roots of my life are here; you are an alien.” He didn’t want to offend her; then he went down to see the Colonel, and mentioned with much embarrassment that the street was getting unbearable.
“Yes, it’s very unhealthy for your wife and child to inhale all that dust. We’ve secured a house.”
“Oh, have you? My wife didn’t tell me.”
“No, she wanted to give you an agreeable surprise. It’s on Park Avenue. We’ve rented it for the winter.” He didn’t add, with the privilege of buying; that was to be kept secret. He liked to be in conspiracy with Julie against her husband.
“It’s perfection; we’ve secured it with servants, wine cellar, everything complete.”
Floyd went home and compromised with Julie. The furnished house for the winter only; he was grateful she had not insisted on going to a fashionable hotel!—A camp in the mountains for the summer, and in the autumn when the street was built up, to return to the old home. Julie was satisfied with the bargain. The house would be impossible shut in on both sides; the walls were cracking; everything was going to pieces. She would never go back.
Floyd stood at the door of the car waiting for the “bunch” to come down—the boy, the nurse, the Pekinese, countless bags, dress suit cases, last-minute bundles, and—Julie very much excited. She had gone back for the little glass vase which had been forgotten. He was physically tired, mentally agonized; he cast one look back and jumped into the car. He had a peculiar feeling: he was the automobile; Julie was driving.