Floyd stood fascinated. It was the only room in that big house that meant something more than wood—marble—The desk was littered, the pigeon-holes stuffed with papers, the deep armchairs, the heavy draperies belonged to former days, the man must have had trouble with his wife about it; she had put him and his “old sticks” in the garret.
The legal envelope was lying on the desk where he had thrown it. He took out a typewritten document. The little house was in his wife’s name. The Colonel had suggested it as a wedding gift. “It was only a matter of form, it was the custom for a man to put the home in the wife’s name,” Floyd laughingly assented. What did it matter? All he had was hers, himself included. Here it was in black and white, sold on easy terms to Hippolyte; at the bottom was written in her large clear hand, Julie Abravanel Gonzola Garrison; she had done it without consulting him; she had the right.
The monotonous voice of the Swede broke the silence.
“He was a very fine man, sir—and a liberal man. She was a beauty; that’s her picture.”
On the desk was a colored print of a woman in bridal costume, all lace, satin-orange blossoms, an enormous bouquet half hiding her face; it was like the wax models one sees in a show window.
The Swede took a photo out of his pocket and handed it to Floyd.
“This is the master; I asked him for it the night before he died. I was very fond of him,” his voice broke.
Floyd knew that care-lined face: “The man who sweated blood.” He shivered. He tried to pull himself together; the horror of it struck him down. He staggered against the desk; on it lay an open letter, crushed together, as if thrown there in haste; his eye caught unconsciously what was written.
It’s over. I’ve made superhuman efforts; everything is gone. I was afraid to tell you the last time you demanded money, throwing up to me I hadn’t made good. I told you this house would ruin us, but you didn’t care! What’s the good of a man who can’t pay out? I’ve begged and begged; this is the last time! You said you couldn’t be poor, and there are others. That’s always in my ears! I see now what a fool I’ve been! I’ve spent my best years scheming for money, and you took it and flung it in the air. I’ve had nothing from my life! nothing! It’s too late to commence again. Come back! Come back!
Floyd shuddered. He looked again at the blood stains; he saw the man with a pistol in his hand. It wasn’t a fair exchange—his soul for her body. He sat in the big chair; that other man must have crouched there with the pistol in his hand. He had usurped a sanctuary, bought with money what another had built with blood.