CHAPTER VI
At four o'clock in the morning Stillman turned his car about and began to return to San Francisco. He did not feel tired, but he was chilled through. About him, in the faint mist of early dawn, the prune-orchards of the Santa Clara Valley stretched out in faintly green lines toward the foothills.
He had a sudden longing for companionship. If only Danilo were there to flame him with vicarious enthusiasm! Danilo!... What was there about Danilo that never failed to melt the cold forms of indifference and weary contempt? Was it the man himself, his intensity for a cause, or the mere novelty of the unique atmosphere which he radiated that had tempted Stillman beyond the pale boundaries of a formal acquaintanceship? Last night's celebration, for instance, had held very little that was traditionally appealing to a man of Stillman's upbringing, and yet he had been tricked into accepting the curious forms through which a totally strange people expressed themselves. In his travels abroad he had always enjoyed the spectacle of foreign life, but he had scarcely felt any desire to enter into it. He found the position of onlooker agreeable, and he was not indifferent to the merit of other traditions, but he had lacked the naïveté to surrender to their spell. When he was with Danilo it was different; the Serbian seemed to be a crucible which fused the most diverse elements, investing everything in life with simplicity and coherence. In Danilo's presence Stillman found himself capable of the most amazing confidences. He could speak out boldly about his hopes, his fears, even his shortcomings. He could discuss the magnitude of his fortune, his carefully guarded indiscretions, his domestic tragedy.
And now, at this moment, as Stillman rode back to San Francisco in the faintly spreading dawn, he had a vague feeling that if Danilo had been at his side he would have poured out his soul and yielded up the most precious secret of his heart. Well, perhaps it was best that Danilo was safely out of range. It was not that he felt any precise mistrust concerning Danilo; all his uncertainty had to do with the strange, hard, coldly flaming Claire that he had glimpsed in that terrible moment when he had first come upon her, seated next to Lycurgus at the Café Ithaca. He had never felt so impotent, so helpless as he had felt at that moment. He remembered, now, every detail of her costume: the blue-green iridescence that ran through every palpitation of her figure, the black, sinister patch near her eye, the brilliant red of her lips. And against all this color the amazing whiteness of her tapering arms had stood out too clearly. He had seen her arms bared before, to the elbow, but never boldly stripped clear to the shoulders. And her hair—that hair which always had graced her head with such unaffected artlessness—she seemed suddenly to have found the need to overdo, to strain for effective simplicity. Her words to him had not helped matters. It was not the memory of her defiance that left him cold; it was the indifference in her voice that froze his heart. She was indifferent—she no longer cared!
He began now to feel not only cold, but weary. What had possessed him to leave the Café Ithaca and flee down the peninsula like a thief in the night? To ride ... ride furiously, madly, that had been his first impulse. Just motion! It seemed that he could find no other outlet for his tumult. But now the leaping flames of emotion had died. He was burned out.
The dawn grew rosier; meadowlarks began to sing; groups of blackbirds rose in ardent, wheeling flights. The mist upon the hills parted and revealed pastoral secrets. But all this full-blooded pageantry left him unmoved.
He thought about his wife; not indirectly, evasively, as had been his habit, but with ruthless honesty. The bulletins from the sanatorium had grown less hopeful. Still, there was always the possibility that the mental fog would clear and leave her at the mercy of a wan sanity. Stillman could imagine nothing more terrible than this return to a chill, stark reason. It would be as if some smiling hillside had paid the toll of a devastating freshet, and was left a scarred and naked waste that a belated sun could never clothe again. And always there would be the sleeping and waking fear that the torrents would descend again with even greater fury. Now, at least, she had the warmth of her hallucinations to make life tolerable. What would be left her when these mirages melted into the dreary void of actual life?... For a moment it seemed to Stillman that reality was the greatest of all tragedies to face. The visions of youth, the ecstasies of the witless, the crooning dreams of old age—how they softened the relentless glare of things as they were! How they lured the traveler past the soul-killing monotonies, the bleak disillusionments!
He left the orchards behind, and came into the region of pretty, artless homes surrounded by gardens spilling their fragrance into the lap of morning. To the west the land dimpled with laughing hills, green and tremulous in the young light. Eucalyptus-trees bent gravely in the chance breezes or stood erectly still where the calm of dawn remained inviolate. Stillman received the impression of nature's calm contentment and took issue with it. He was in no mood to be snared by the false promise of morning.
He began now to think about himself, and immediately all his raillery at fate died. What had he ever done to prove his claim to happiness? Had he ever wrestled with God for a blessing? He thought of Danilo, remembering all the details of the doctor's hard-fisted battle with circumstances—starving days, shivering nights. There must be a full-blooded joy in giving fate blow for blow; in having to fight for every narrow foothold upon the ledge of fortune! Well, the heights had been his without the toil of scaling, and he had looked down upon the promised land with indifference. What had he been doing all these years, all these months, all these weeks? He had done his duty, perhaps; but scarcely more. Widows who cast their mite into the Lord's treasury did this much. He had never thought of spilling the wine from his brimming cup upon the parched lips of the thirsty, and he had measured the meal of obligation with too finely balanced a scale. Now had come a time when his greatest wish was to be prodigal, and the hands that should have received his outpouring were tied grimly. What would not he have given to see the fruits of his inheritance replenishing the scant store of the woman he loved! And yet, as he had said, the veriest beggar could do more—could fling his penny at the feet of Claire Robson and go on his starving way with a smile. Perhaps a man more trained in outwitting circumstances would have found a way out of the difficulty, but Stillman could see only blind alleys leading from every desire of his heart.... Danilo's ardent face rose before him. Here was a man who could no doubt feel the ecstasy of personal passion and yet have abundant thrill for bigger things. He had conquered a profession and now he was to surrender to the outpouring of the spirit upon the altars of his native land. His native land! Just what did an expression like this mean to Ned Stillman?—a smiling country untouched by the stress of nature, and only remotely disturbed by the grim expediency of war; a sky-blue birthright that yielded up the easy harvests which had reduced him to such sleek impotence. He felt suddenly tricked, cheated, as one does who looks back upon indulgent parents with a feeling of accusing scorn. Danilo's native land had made demands, forced the chains of loyalty in the white-heated fires of necessity. Danilo loved his Serbia because he had wept with her—because the claims of mutual tears are stronger than the claims of mutual laughter. Stillman felt loyal to the land of his birth. And he had worked hard, too. He had made sacrifices, of a kind, and he was prepared to do more. Yes, he would go the limit ... the absolute limit. He had every reason to be grateful for his inheritance, and yet, Danilo, penniless and tempered in the fires of a frugal birthright, had the best of the bargain....
Stillman was nearing San Francisco now. The landscape had the moth-eaten look that landscapes do when they make the transition from countryside to paved streets. But at least the morning air was still fresh, as yet unpolluted by the foul breath of drudgery and toil. He began to wonder vaguely whether Danilo would be stirring so early. He felt a sudden desire to see him. Well, why not? He remembered the doctor's address—a cheap lodging-house on Third Street. He had never favored Danilo before with a visit. It seemed absurd to burst in upon a man at the ungodly hour of six o'clock. But he had a wish to outrage his own sense of conventionality.
He found Danilo up and stirring. The room was clean and unincumbered with personal effects. A few photographs upon the bureau, a panorama of Belgrade, an American and a Serbian flag intertwined—these were all the evidences of occupation. Danilo himself was in a gay-flowered dressing-gown and he moved toward the door with a graceful gliding movement as he said:
"Why, my dear fellow, you look ill! What can be the matter?"
Stillman sank into a chair. It had needed just this word of sympathy to upset his poise utterly.
"I don't know," he answered. "I felt suddenly dizzy when I opened the door. Forgive me for breaking in on you at such an hour!"
Danilo answered with a laugh, and brought out cigarettes. Stillman took one. They began to smoke.
"I can't think what is the matter with me," Stillman began, awkwardly.
Danilo seated himself. "I can. You're in love. You are afraid to talk about it.... Ah yes, I knew that I was not wrong! You are blushing like a school-boy. Tell me, what is her name?"
Stillman breathed heavily. He made no answer.
Danilo rose. "Ah, my friend, forgive me!" he said, quickly. "I didn't realize it was...."
Stillman made a little gesture of appeal. "I didn't myself until.... God, it's all so horrible!"
"Your wife, you mean?... Well, perhaps there could be a way out."
"No, there's no way out!... What would you do if you saw the woman you loved going down ... down ... down, and you were powerless to save her?"
"A question of money or morals?"
"Money first of all...."
"That ought not to be much of a problem in your case."
"Ah, you don't understand! Oh no! can't you see? In this case it would be impossible!"
"Then it is a question of morals.... I know. Sometimes these things happen—how do you say it?—in the best of regulated families. If I were in your position and it happened to the woman.... Well, in my country it is all very simple. We call the man out and shoot him. Here ... I suppose here you tell your troubles to a policeman, do you not?"
Stillman darted a swift, searching look at Danilo.
"Not always.... Sometimes we commit the indiscretion of telling our friends."
Danilo rose quickly. He went over and put his hand caressingly on Stillman's shoulder.
"Indiscretion, my brother?" he queried. "Ah, you do not know me, even yet! Well, we are companions in misery, if it comes to that. But in my case I do not think I shall need the pistol. I shall marry the girl. And that will end everything."
Stillman pressed Danilo's hand. "A girl of your own people?"
"No—one of your American girls.... Some day, when it is all settled, I shall invite you to meet her.... I came very near letting you see her last night. But it happened otherwise, and I am as well pleased." He laughed, showing his teeth pleasantly. "I do not want you as a rival, my brother. That would be a nasty business between friends."
Stillman rose. "My dear Danilo, I wish you every happiness," he said. He wanted to say more, to sound a warmer note, but the words would not shape themselves. But Danilo seemed to divine his intent.
"And you, brother.... No, I shall not mock you with a return of the compliment. But I shall hope that it will all come right for you, somehow. That this woman you love shall be worthy of a good man. At least, then you will have your faith. Cold comforts are better than none at all!"
Stillman smiled grayly. "And what is to become of the Serbian project, now that you are to be...."
"My dear fellow, marriage is not the end of everything. A man still has his duties—his enthusiasms! Everything will go on as I have planned it."
"You said she was an American.... Perhaps she will object to being left...."
"Left?... Why, she will go with me! Remember, I am marrying a wife, and, naturally, a wife does what her husband—"
"Oh, of course, of course! That goes without saying." Stillman laughed disagreeably. "Really, I must be running along. I am tired. I have been riding all night."
"I am afraid my name-day celebration was disturbing," Danilo said, giving Stillman his hand.
"Life is so full of unexpected turns," Stillman ventured as he swung open the door. "I didn't think that your life and my life were touched by the same currents."
"Are they?"
"Remotely ... by the merest chance."
Danilo looked puzzled. "Chance is like a deep pool; you never know what ghastly thing it will yield up."
Stillman narrowed his eyes. He began to remember things. Again he heard the sharp slam of a taxi door, again he felt his cheeks burn as he leaned forward to pick up his hat, again he laid an inquisitive hand upon the shoulder of a slim, beetle-browed figure standing with one finger upon the call-bell of an elevator. And again that figure turned, fixing him with a red-lipped smile.... Yes, at this moment, standing before Danilo, it all came back.
"An American girl.... So he is to marry an American girl!... I wonder if...."
For a moment he felt the hot coals of smoldering lawlessness flare within him. But a chill followed ... a bleak, dead, lifeless chill of resignation. He put out his hand.
"I hope everything good for you, my friend," he said, sadly. "Everything good for you ... and ... and this woman you are to marry."
CHAPTER VII
"It is as I thought ... he is in love. He admitted as much to me this morning.... What do you think of him?"
Danilo, standing before the kitchen window of the Robson home, looked out across the dreary stretch of back yards and dizzy back stairways.
Claire stopped folding a dish-towel as she gave Danilo a sharp glance. Here was the opportunity that she had longed for. Now she could tell him simply and naturally that she had seen Stillman before, that she knew him, had worked for him, in fact. But, instead, a sudden awkward silence fell.... Something at once definite and intangible had come between these two.
Danilo fingered his hat and remembered a pressing engagement.
Claire followed him to the door.
"My patient died last night—the old woman I was called away to attend. I thought of you all the while, wondering how you would get home. Indeed, at one o'clock I went back for you, but you had gone."
"That was very kind," Claire returned, still moved by a vague resentment. "I got home as usual ... on the street-car. I do it nearly every night, you know."
Danilo looked at her squarely. "But last night was different. You—you—well, to be frank, you were not dressed for the street."
She had been expecting some such thing and she decided to meet the issue nonchalantly. "Oh, but you didn't see me leave! I was the most dowdy and respectable thing imaginable. A shabby coat and a dingy lace scarf work wonders. I assure you nobody looked twice at me."
Danilo frowned, and he stepped back upon the threshold as he said:
"Nobody would have looked at you even once if I had been along.... I do not want you to dress again as you did last night."
"No?" she gasped.
"No. It makes me.... Well, perhaps you would not understand, now. But later—later you will see why I take the trouble.... As a matter of fact, I would have brought my friend Stillman over to meet you, but I decided to wait for another time ... when you were more like yourself. I wanted him to see you at your best.... I hope my words do not offend you. But you have no brother and...."
He finished with a shrug. His words did not offend her—they struck deeper, so deep that all her pride rose to meet the issue with a smiling acceptance of his rebuke. "Offended? Oh, my dear, no! You are frank about it, at all events." She forced a laugh. "I shall try to be good in the future."
He did not succumb to her strained mirth. He merely looked at her with a note almost disapproving as he gravely said good-by.
She went up-stairs into her mother's room. Mrs. Robson sat propped up in the position that Claire always helped her assume for the doctor's daily visit. Mrs. Robson's dull eyes brightened. She began her illusive mumblings. Claire dropped at attentive ear to her mother's words.
"The doctor," Mrs. Robson was saying, "he should not come every day. It—it is too expensive."
"I am not paying him, mother."
"Oh.... Then he is not coming to see me?"
"Why, of course he is coming to see you, mother! What else would...."
Mrs. Robson shook her head. "I've been thinking, Claire.... Of course, he is not just what I had hoped.... But he is a kind man, Claire. I don't know, but perhaps...."
She tried to lift her helpless hands and draw her daughter's head toward her lips. Claire met the effort half-way.
"He is a kind man, Claire, a kind man," Mrs. Robson kept repeating.
Claire's heart gave a sudden leap.
"We shall see, mother. We shall see."
One night toward the end of the week Claire Robson had a surprise. In the midst of all the cut-to-measure gaiety of the Café Ithaca who should walk in the side door but Sawyer Flint. Claire stared frankly. Instinctively Flint fell back with a quick screening movement, not only obvious, but futile. His companion proved to be Lily Condor. Claire, who was sitting idly at the piano, turned away her head and began to play. The spectacle of Flint and Mrs. Condor together was not unexpected; Nellie Whitehead had brought her the news of this latest alliance not two weeks before.
"They go poking about to all the cheap joints where they're sure nobody will get a line on them. Billy Holmes and I saw them at the Fior d'Italia last Saturday."
Nellie Whitehead had said other things, too, complimentary to neither her former employer nor his latest boon companion....
Claire did not look up again until she had finished the piece she was playing. Flint and Lily Condor had retreated to an obscure corner where they seemed to be sitting in rather furtive discomfort. Claire was human enough to enjoy her triumph. She knew that the two were taking mental stock of the defenses that they might be called upon to use.
Mrs. Condor looked older; her hair was losing its luster, and her complexion showed unmistakable first-aid signs. There were about her mouth, too, lines of spiritual rather than of physical fag, forerunners of a complete let-down. Claire could but feel a measure of pity for this woman. She knew enough to realize that in accepting the attentions of Sawyer Flint Lily Condor had reached the ghastly plains of unrestrained compromise. At least there had been always something bold and arresting about Mrs. Condor's indiscretions; she had not been given to shielding her improprieties behind the screen of cheap delights. She reminded Claire of some harried animal snatching joys at the expense of security. After Flint washed his hands of her, what then?
Flint was making compromises, too. Lily Condor was not the woman he would have picked for a dining companion if the field had been open to his choice. Flint liked to exhibit his quarry rather openly and with a swagger. But Lily was no conquest to brag of, and Claire could see that already his attitude was anything but deferential. She had a feeling that Mrs. Condor would have been willing to take the chance of dining with Sawyer Flint in the fashionable restaurants of San Francisco, and that these shifts to less smart entertainments were more a matter of Flint's lack of pride in his adventure rather than his companion's desire to be furtive. And as for the discretion of sneaking in and out of badly lighted side entrances—even this was questionable. After all, Flint and Lily Condor could have played an open game to much better purpose, and Claire was sensible that they both were aware of this fact—the lady to her inward chagrin.
Flint ordered a salad and then rose and went out into the barroom. Mrs. Condor, divesting herself of wraps, deliberately caught Claire's eye and beckoned her. Claire left the piano stool.
"Claire Robson!" began Mrs. Condor, boldly. "Fancy—you here!"
Claire looked at her with uncomfortable directness. "All my friends are surprised," she answered, simply.
This reply left Mrs. Condor without any conversational lead. But she was not inclined to retreat in the face of blocked advance. "I heard somewhere," Lily lied, glibly, "that you were doing cabaret work, but of course it never dawned on me to find you in the Greek quarter. How is it—very dreadful?"
Claire waved her hand. "You can see for yourself," she said.
"Oh, I dare say it is human enough. By the way, I suppose you're very sore at me. But really, you know—"
"Sore at you! Why, my dear Mrs. Condor, I am sore at nobody. Why should I be?"
"Well, I thought perhaps.... Oh, well, what is the use of pretending? You know what I'm talking about."
"If you mean that silly tempest about the Café Chantant, please dismiss it from your mind. I've done so long ago. You were put in an awkward position and I don't blame you. You had to choose, of course, between me and your friend, Mrs. Flint. I can't fancy any sane person doing differently."
Claire had never thought she could put so much cool insolence into a speech. Lily Condor stared, fidgeted, tried to laugh. "Mrs. Flint! Well, my dear, you know as well as I do that she's impossible. I really feel sorry for Sawyer. He likes a little gaiety now and then ... just.... Well, you know what I mean!"
"Yes ... he told me all about it the night I went over to take dictation. 'No rough stuff, but a good feed, and two kinds of wine, and a cigarette with the small black.' That was the way he put it, as I remember. It all sounded very gay and exciting then. But I've seen a good deal since, and now it all strikes me as quite dull."
Mrs. Condor was measuring Claire with a puzzled air. "Claire, you're getting bitter, I'm afraid. I'm sorry to see that. I'm old enough, Heavens knows, but I try to get peevish. As a matter of fact, you played your cards all wrong. You had Ned Stillman going south. Do you know why I called you over to my table to-night?"
Claire looked at her purring adversary from head to foot. "Yes, you wanted to make sure that I wouldn't spread the news to Mrs. Flint about seeing you here—with her husband. You needn't worry. The news won't get to Mrs. Flint through me. I've got other things on my mind."
Claire moved away. Flint was coming back. He had the effrontery to bow to her, but she stared at him coldly and resumed her seat at the piano. Presently she was conscious that Flint had called the waiter. And a little later she saw Flint and Lily Condor go out the side door.
Flint came back to the Café Ithaca the following night, alone. It was after the dinner hour and there was a little lull between gaieties. The entertainers sat huddled about the piano, but Claire was sitting in a far corner, at one of the obscure tables. Since the St. George's Day celebration the other performers had treated her with cool contempt, making pointed remarks about "up-stage" airs and the people who indulged in them. Claire felt that it was only a matter of time, now, that she would be forced to leave. Lycurgus had taken to drinking more and more heavily and he had begun to intimate that perhaps it would be a fairer proposition if Claire got in between numbers and hustled drinks with the rest of them. He was still appreciative of the costume she had worn at his feast, but she was finding it difficult to explain why she did not appear in it every night.
Lycurgus saw Flint come in, and, scenting a generous patron, scurried up to him obsequiously.
"Thank you—thank you! Where will you sit?"
Flint swept the room with his glance. "Over there," he said, loudly, pointing to where Claire was sitting.
She was on her feet in an instant, but Flint bore down upon her swiftly. "Here! Don't be in such a hurry! I've got something to say to you."
She shrugged wearily and resumed her seat. Lycurgus discreetly retreated.
Flint threw aside his overcoat and took a chair opposite her.
"What'll you have?" he demanded, beckoning the waiter.
"Nothing," she answered.
Flint ordered a cognac.
"Old friend Condor tells me that you insulted her last night. I'm glad of it. I'm sick of her. I'm sick of everything. Cheer up! Have one with me, won't you?... I say, but you are a nice little tombstone to be ornamenting a place like this. What's the matter, don't you like me?"
Claire continued to stare dumbly at him. He had been drinking, she could see that plainly, and she felt a remnant of the mixed fascination and fear that she had experienced during that memorable hour at his dinner-table.
"No, you don't like me," he mused audibly, with an air of drunken melancholy, as if the thought had just struck him. "That's why I'm running around with the old girl ... just out of spite.... Say, but this is a hell of a place for you to be in! On the square it is ... nothing but dirty, drunken Greeks and painted females! Bah! this isn't any place for you! What I wanted to say is this—any time you want your job back you can have it. It's there waiting for you. And there ain't any strings on it, either.... I played you a mean trick and I acknowledge it. Now I ask you, on the level, ain't that fair enough?... I ain't the man to go crawling on all-fours, begging people's pardon. But you've been pretty game and I take my hat off to you! I take my hat off to anybody that's game, see? Anybody at all ... anybody that's game.... Well, what you staring at? I know I'm losing my hair, but I don't have to have you tell me that.... Is it a go? Your job back and everything nice and comfortable again?"
Suddenly Claire felt sorry for him. She was beginning to feel sorry for any one stripped of his illusions. And she had a conviction that this man before her had treasured illusions that were no less poignant merely because they were vulgar. He seemed sincere in spite of his befuddled state. Somehow, somewhere, it had come upon him that he had done her a grave injustice and he was offering her such reparation as his lights allowed. Her job back and everything nice and comfortable again! How simple and naïve and masculine! Everything—all the bitter, soul-stirring experiences of the past months to be swept aside by the simple formula of restoring her to her old berth! It was absurd enough for laughter, but tears trembled very near the surface of such a revelation. Yes, it took a man to have the courage of any faith so direct and artless!
"I'm afraid," she said, looking at him clearly, "that it wouldn't be possible ... to have the slate wiped clean again. And besides.... I have to earn my living now at night, Mr. Flint. I have my mother to look after in the daytime, you know."
She spoke so gently that she surprised even herself. And it came upon her that she had no reason to feel any rancor against the man before her. It was he that had given her the first opportunity to cross swords with life. And it struck her with added force that she would not recall one moment of the last six months even if she could.
He did not receive her reply with much grace. His fist came down upon the table as he said:
"You always were damn full of excuses.... You worked in the daytime for Ned Stillman.... But you can't get rid of me as quickly as you once did. This is a public place and I'll come here and sit every night and order up drinks until you change your mind."
Claire rose in her seat. "Sit down!" he commanded, thickly. "Sit down, or by God! I'll start something!"
His voice had risen so that the entertainers grouped about the piano heard him. Lycurgus came forward.
"Thank you! Thank you!... What is the matter?"
"This dame here," Flint cried, sweeping a sneering finger in Claire's direction, "she's about as alive as a broiled pork chop. I come in here for a good time and I can't even get her to drink with me. What kind of a dump is this, anyway?"
A swooning fear came over Claire. What if Danilo were suddenly to come in the side door? She looked in the direction of the entertainers. They were smiling broadly. Lycurgus rubbed his hands together and fawned.
"Thank you!... Thank you! What is it, Miss Robson? If the gentleman wants to buy a drink, surely...."
Claire saw Doris, the French Jewess, coming toward them. "Did I hear something about some one wanting to buy a drink?" She turned a wide smile upon Flint. "Here, let me sit down!" she demanded of Claire, who moved away.
Claire walked in the direction of the dressing-room. Lycurgus followed her.
"Miss Robson, thank you! Thank you! You see how it is? You spoil my trade! Everybody else ... they dress gay ... plenty of color! They order drinks. I am your friend, but you can see...."
"Yes, yes," she answered, hurriedly. "I see. It is all my fault. I shall go home now, and not come back."
"Not come—never?" Lycurgus brought his hand forward in the old familiar gesture. "Oh, Miss Robson, why do you make me so sorrowful? For just a drink.... You would not even have to taste it! Ah, I do not understand these American women!"
She escaped swiftly and put on her things. As she passed out through the café again, shrill laughter followed her through the door. She hurried along Third Street. At the crossing of Howard Street she was aware that some one had come up to her. She turned. It was Sawyer Flint. His face was very red and his eyes almost swallowed in rolls of puffy flesh.
"I'm drunk," he said, thickly. "I know that. You don't have to tell me I'm drunk!... What was the matter? Did I spill the beans? I spilled the beans, I know. You don't have to tell me I spilled the beans. You lost your job, eh? On my account you lost it? Well, do you know I don't give a damn if you did? That ain't any place for you.... That other dame ... she thought I was going to buy her a drink. Well, she had another thought coming. I don't buy drinks for any of them. I buy for you or not at all.... For you or not at all! I think I'll go out and see old lady Condor now. I want to get rid of her. No time like the present. That's my motto—no time like the present! You don't have to tell me I made you lose your job. I know! But I don't give a damn. Do you understand? Matter of fact, that's the only decent thing I've done for twenty years. And remember, whenever you want your job back.... You know, just because you're game. I take my hat off to anybody...."
He gave a sudden lurch and Claire escaped.
She thought at first of going directly home, but she discovered that it was only nine o'clock and she dreaded to think of listening to the pallid chatter of Miss Proll, the little seamstress. Then she would be forced to invent an excuse for her early home-coming and she had grown tired of inventing excuses.
She decided to look up Nellie Whitehead. She found her at home, wielding an electric iron and in a state of comfortable disorder from her straggling hair down to her frayed Japanese straw slippers.
"Well, Robson, how goes it?" Nellie said, testing the heated iron with a moist finger. "Don't tell me you've lost your job!"
"That's what I came to do," Claire returned as she threw her hat and coat to one side.
Miss Whitehead with fine discrimination changed the subject. "I'm going to get married next week," she announced.
"To ... to Billy Holmes?"
"The same. I sat down and figured things out the other day. This talk about the independence of females may be all to the good, but I know how independent I am now and how independent I'll be in twenty years from now. Just about as independent as a barn-yard fowl. There's an old girl down where I work now, and she's getting on the ragged edge of fifty, and what do you suppose her joy in life consists of? Saving her dimes up so she will have enough money to dig into an old people's home when she's sixty-five. Ain't that a glowing prospect? Oh, she'll be independent, all right. Anybody is who is a guest of a public institution. Say, I'll bet the old people's home has more rules than a hockey-game. Of course, I suppose a man can lay down a lot of rules for his frau's conduct, too, but the man who marries me will have the fun of laying 'em down and that's about all.... So you've lost your job? Why don't you sign up a marriage contract? You're not waiting to fall in love, are you? It's too bad old friend Stillman has incumbrances. You and he would make a go of it! He's a pretty good kid, all right. He's got his drawbacks, like the rest of 'em, but there must be something fair about a man who stays by a rotten game.... Whatever became of that Serbian doctor, Robson?... Strikes me you've kept pretty mum about him. Billy told me the other day he saw him coming out of your house. On the square, why don't you flag him?"
Claire tried to smile. "Well, at least wait until he asks me!" she replied.
And they began to discuss Nellie Whitehead's trousseau.
CHAPTER VIII
In the Robson flat the lights were still burning when Claire got home. Especially in her mother's room there was an unusual brilliance for so late an hour. Claire was frightened. She scrambled up the stairs. Danilo was leaving the sick-room. "What?..." gasped Claire. "Has anything...."
He smiled mysteriously and shook his head. She went in.
She found her mother propped up and looking more animated than at any time since her illness. Her eyes were glowing and two faint spots burned on either cheek.
"Claire!... Claire!" she whispered, excitedly. "Danilo...."
"Yes!"
"It seems.... He wants to marry you, Claire.... He came to me because ... it appears that is the custom in his country."
Claire felt the room whirling.
"Well, mother?"
"He is a kind man, Claire," she heard her mother say.
She went out into the hall. Danilo was standing calm and confident at the head of the stairs.
"Your mother ... has she told you?"
"Yes."
"You are not ready—is that it?"
"I...." She gave a startled look and fell back a trifle. Then more quietly she finished: "Let us go somewhere.... This.... I cannot talk to you here!"
They went down together ... out into the night. She wondered what she would say ... what was there to talk about?... This was the moment she had been waiting for all her life—the moment that every woman waited for ... and still it appeared that it was a matter for calm discussion. Perhaps the formality of Danilo's procedure had robbed the incident of its surge and sweep.... She did not know.... All she knew was that she was trembling.... Afraid?... Well, perhaps ... a trifle. Was it always so?
At the first corner they came upon Danilo's car. Danilo halted.
"No ... no ... let us walk!" she protested.
He yielded to her humor with a gracious shrug. She slipped her arm into his and as quickly withdrew it—he was trembling, too!...
They walked down Clay Street in silence. Instinctively Claire turned toward the quickened pulse of the town. They passed through the gaudy shops of Chinatown into the Latin quarter.... Crossing Broadway, they came upon a flight of steps that lost their way in the white fog which shrouded Telegraph Hill.
"Shall we go up?" said Danilo.
Claire turned for a moment and looked back at the light-blurred city.
"Yes," she answered, as she gave a little shiver.
She took his arm and they began to climb; the city fell beneath them, a faintly luminous outline growing more and more remote. Dimmed by the sad and mysterious tears of evening, the squalid hillside lost its harshness; the cold street-lamps mellowed to gold in the still, thick air.
They reached the crest of the hill. A breeze from the west showered them with a flurry of moisture. They looked up. A wind-tortured tree was bending wearily forward, its dripping leaves trembling before the night's breath. The sound of an accordion rose above the muffled moaning of fog-whistles.
The street had ended suddenly in rout and was running away in a disorderly succession of aimless paths.
"Where shall we go now?" asked Danilo, as he halted.
"Toward the music," Claire replied, vaguely.
He listened a moment. "It is over on the east side of the hill somewhere," he announced.
They dipped down. The way became more ragged and full of shifting rocks. The air was warmer, screened from the sea's breath by the yellow hilltop. The sound of the music grew nearer and nearer. A tawny light sprang up just ahead; snatches of laughter reached them. Then, quite suddenly, they came to an abrupt and jagged ledge.
"See, down there!" cried Danilo.
Claire looked. Just below them in a bowl-like depression that had once been the clearing for an old-fashioned garden she saw black figures swaying rhythmically about a bonfire. Danilo, taking a newspaper out of his overcoat pocket, spread it on the ground. They sat down.
The curtain rises on villagers dancing on the village green. Claire remembered the old formula with which the printed synopsis of the Christmas pantomime inevitably began. It had been to her nothing but an empty phrase like the "once upon a time" of a folk-tale. Claire had never seen a village; she had seen only cities and country towns, peopled by individuals too self-conscious to do anything so naïve and simple as to dance open and unashamed upon the bare earth.
The bonfire blazed up suddenly and the dim figures became more tangible and alive. Claire could even see their faces. Remnants of a feast were scattered about—blue-black mussel-shells, soiled tamale-husks, brown crusts of Italian bread that had been baked in huge round loaves. The music stopped. The girls detached themselves from their partners. Jugs of wine were now lifted up. The men drank with heads thrown back, smacking their lips in greedy satisfaction. The women, standing apart, began to smooth out their dresses and straighten their hats. Somebody came forward to the women carrying a demijohn and tin cups. The women drank coquettishly, tossing the last mouthful out upon the camp-fire. Then the music began again.
Claire leaned forward, her lips parted with a spiritual hunger she could not define. She felt Danilo's hand slowly closing over hers; she made no attempt to withdraw it. As she sat there watching these women surrendering to their transient joys she felt a strange envy, mixed with profound pity. These women danced to-night; they would dance to-morrow night ... for a week, or a month, or a year, as the case might be, but finally the reckoning would come. But at least they danced! At least they would have their memories!
One brown wisp of a girl stood out from all the rest. She was not so deep-bosomed and broad of hips as the other women, and she danced airily, darting here and there like a blue-winged swallow. Her partner, too, was taller and thinner-flanked than the other men. Her head was tilted back and her man bent forward as if to imprison her very breath in the snare which his smile had set. Whenever the music stopped they drank from the same tin cup, and when the dance began again they whirled off like two leaves in the clutch of the autumn breeze.
Claire bent forward eagerly; a movement of her foot sent a detached stone tumbling over the cliff into the midst of the dancers. They all halted, looked up in surprise. Then the young woman, catching a glimpse of Claire and Danilo, waved a welcome.
"Come!" she called, gaily. "Come and have a dance!"
The music, which had ceased for a brief instant, started up.
"Shall ... shall we go down?" asked Claire.
"Yes.... Why not?"
They circled down the hillside hand in hand.
When they came up to the bonfire wine was being poured and thick slices of bread passed about. The little brown girl came forward, showing her white teeth.
"Here, Tony! This way with the wine!" she cried.
Her partner answered her call. He had two tin cups and a demijohn in his hand. He filled both cups to the brim, passing one to Claire and one to the girl at his side. Both women took a sip; the girl handed the cup back to her companion.
"You, too!" she said to Claire. "You and your man! You are like us ... lovers! You must drink so ... from the same cup."
Claire looked at Danilo. He put out his hand and took the cup from her.... They brought bread next, not sliced, but in a huge brown loaf. The youth broke through the crisp crust and gave them each a piece. It seemed to Claire as if she were partaking of some strange and beautiful sacrament. She looked away from the firelight—the fog had grown whiter and more dense, and the city below them had ceased to exist. It was as if care had died and this pallid mist were a winding-sheet that would forever screen its ghastly face.
The music started up once more. The little brown girl and her lover whirled away.
"Come," said Danilo, as he drew Claire gently toward him.
She tossed aside her hat, throwing it with joyful abandon upon the top of a stunted rose-hedge which bent to receive it. They began to dance, simply, beautifully, naturally, their feet planted firmly upon the yellow clay, their quick, ardent breaths further whitening the evening air.
"Claire! Claire!" Danilo bent over, in the fashion of the lean-flanked youth, toward her parted lips. "Claire, do you hear me?... I love you!"
"Yes," she answered, smiling back at him, "I hear you!"
"From the same cup, Claire ... joy or sorrow! We shall drink always from the same cup."
"Yes, joy or sorrow! Joy or sorrow!" she repeated after him.
"When we mounted the stairs to-night, Claire, we did not know that we were climbing to happiness."
"Let us stay up here always.... Let us never go down."
"Always, Claire, always. We shall never return."
The music stopped. They, too, stopped, out of breath and bewildered. The musician was folding up his accordion.
"Ah," cried the little brown girl, running up to them, "it is over too soon! But we cannot dance all night. There is work to-morrow."
"Yes," assented Claire, slowly. "You are right."
The wine-jugs were lifted and the wine-cups filled for the last time. Danilo took a perfunctory sip and passed his cup to Claire; she put it to her lips—this time the wine had a bitter taste. She thrust the drink from her at arm's-length and poured a red flood upon the tawny, sun-baked ground.
Already the company was departing. Claire and Danilo stood apart and watched them go. They dipped down the hillside, fading into the mists like a company of devout and penitent pilgrims. The fire had sunk to a heap of red embers.
"We must be going, too," said Claire.
They made their way back to the flight of steps. The west wind had risen sharply, and the fog parted in the breeze. The city was emerging from its gloom like a bejeweled woman dropping a scarf from her gleaming shoulders.
"Must ... must we really go back?" Claire asked, suddenly, as she drew away from the first downward step.
He took her hand. "Are you afraid ... with me?" he said, gently.
She pressed his hand. "Can it be over so soon?"
"Over? It has just begun, Claire. Have you forgotten?... From the same cup!"
"Joy or sorrow," she repeated.
He led her back a short distance. They withdrew into the shelter of a twisted acacia that seemed determined to escape from the imprisonment of its squalid garden. She leaned against the fence.
"Ah, Claire!" she heard him say, and she felt the shadow of his upraised arms fall upon her, "can you not picture our life together?... All the brave things to do and accomplish?... This is as I have always dreamed it—to share even my workday with my wife. To share my poverty with her. To share my aspirations. Come, what is your answer?"
She raised her brimming eyes to his. "Yes," she answered.
He put his fingers to her temples and drew her face toward him. "My wife!" he said, simply. And he let his lips fall upon her hair.
What had she come to talk about? Problems?... her mother?... her duties?... How absurd, when nothing else mattered but just this ... nothing else in the whole wide world!
They walked slowly to the brow of the hill.
"If every one could be as happy!" escaped her.
"Ah yes," he murmured, "but there is an end even to sorrow.... To-day my friend Stillman's sorrow ended ... his wife is dead."