The unwelcome man

by Waldo David Frank

It was a conventionally furnished room, eloquent of the overpaid house-decorator. The walls were a thick, red silk above high panellings in oak. Two sets of curtains, red-plush and cream-colored net, shut out the gleam of the low sun that fell athwart the street. The chairs were lavishly upholstered, in light green with silvered wood. In the right corner of the room was Adelaide’s piano—Rhoda did not play. The center table was covered in brocade, bronze tinged. Upon it were ornaments—sculptured book-racks in mahogany, sumptuous paper cutters, a fan of ivory lace, a leather sécrétaire embossed in gold—all of it curiously travestied with a litter of cheap magazines. Against the left wall was a sofa and on it sat Adelaide, and Jonas puffing a pipe. At his left was a great settle with collapsible back, book-rest and foot-guard—the throne of Marsden. Rhoda had drawn her chair beside him. They were looking together at a comic weekly, and munching from a box of candy conveniently between them. On the room’s other side, near the piano, was Quincy,—relaxed far back in a high arm-chair, his legs dangling.

Marsden and Rhoda were seriously at their jokes, enjoying the candies together. Jonas pulled at his pipe, a smirk of ruddy satisfaction on his face. Adelaide was drowsy. She had set aside her book. There was little general conversation. And yet, an atmosphere of contentment pervaded the heavy, over-furnished room.

Quincy, also, was drowsy. He had just stepped in for a magazine. An impulse that came seldom had prompted him to stay. No attention had been paid to him. So he had seated himself, half resolved to read. And now, he was contemplatively taking in the scene. The hour was between day and evening—in happier climes, the twilight. But New York has no stomach for nuances. With her greatness, the Metropolis has driven out the gentle hour wherein night’s mystery comes to meet the day’s assertiveness. It was already evening in the room. In the street, it was still day. The City’s life came muffled, as from another world.

Quincy’s mood made him observant. A touch of comradeship was in the motive that made him stay. He was hoping someone would talk to him. And in his wish, he studied the shadowed features of those from whom he seemed almost to be desiring a grace.

Quincy remarked how scant Marsden’s hair had become. Marsden was twenty-four. But he looked immeasurably old. Quincy observed that there was a discomforting presence in Rhoda. Her eyes were big and soft, yet what came from them was hard and—it came almost in its true terms to Quincy—mean. Her mouth had a fire about it; yet the broad lips did not suggest that the fire was contained. In looking at Rhoda, Quincy was minded of an iceberg swimming in a sea of flame. It was a fascinating thought. And he could not keep from thinking that if one were in the flame the ice would smart deliciously; whereas, if one were on the ice, the flame would be a balm. He did not understand very clearly about Rhoda. He knew that it was rather disconcerting to look long at her. He knew that her pale, dark face was beautiful. Just now, a stray gleam of the sun stood orange on her hair. And her body, tight beneath its dress of silken crêpe, seemed strangely sweet and secret. He remembered then what he had seen on that one occasion. And then, he grew ashamed.

Beside her, Marsden was almost fearfully grotesque. His forehead bulged and his hair had a streak of grey. His eyes were now dull, now glistening. And his fingers were very long and made an irritating sound as he clicked them against his chair.

Jonas was a man of a dead mystery to Quincy. His ruddy, flashing face had been fully fathomed. He was a stranger whom once Quincy had been eager to know. The eagerness had died. The rather stout mass of his body, the weak puffiness of his lips, his nasal slang and his coarse straight hair were to Quincy an impersonal assortment.

With Adelaide he felt curiously unaroused. If this girl moved him at all, it was unpleasantly. There was a cloying, humble atmosphere about her. Quincy did not care for her. Frequently, he would forget that she was in the room.

And now, it had grown too dark, even for comic pictures. Marsden and Rhoda whispered together; his raucous chuckle chimed well with the cold ring of her laughter. And the night rose above them. Quincy’s mind went leaping through it as if light were a barrier at last effaced. He was comfortable in his chair. He wondered whether, perhaps, he was not face to face with a more comfortable future. His heart went out to his brothers and sisters, so eager was he to prove his dream’s verisimilitude. One so beautiful as Rhoda could not be hard of heart; nor one so rubicund as Jonas, nor so suffering as Marsden, nor so meek as Adelaide. Oh! if they but gave him a chance—how good and kind and loving he would be! He was getting old now. He was fifteen. He could find ways to be of use. He could make his new happiness efficient. He could read to Marsden when he was tired; he could try to learn jokes to tell to Jonas; he could run errands for his sisters. He would use his body and his mind to show his gratitude, to prove his worth. Quincy went swimming through the element of his desire. The hum of the Elevated trains, the croon of the cars past the street, the rattle of a wagon merged into a varied harmony, all pliant to his gentle mood. The little fellow clasped the arm of his chair as if to hold on to this fleet state of happiness and so sustain it....

Marsden’s voice cut into him, like a knife.