The situation regarding Wintergreen Waterbury, unchanged and unchanging, was beginning to try Paul's patience. Long since, he had lost all interest in everything pertaining to the affair save the sporting chance. It was disagreeable to his pride to be forced to admit that he had failed where all others had failed. The girl's placid virginity was baffling. Apparently, she made no slightest effort to protect her most cherished possession: she accepted all invitations with alacrity, lunched, dined, motored, and supped with Paul with a casual docility that, in another case, would have offered evidence of interest. When the atmosphere became unpleasantly warm she wept. On one occasion she had cried continuously for nearly an hour. After ten minutes or so of this startling exhibition he had felt impelled to time this test of endurance. Lately, she had been given to dropping mysterious hints. With any one else, or had there been anything in their relationship to provoke such a thought, he would have believed that she was enticing him to propose marriage to her. With Wintergreen, however, the idea was incredible, preposterous. Still there was something going on in what took the place of her mind; of that there could be no doubt.
Had there been anything to gain in the end beyond a certain sop to his vanity, Paul perhaps might have continued the pursuit of conquest for six months or even a year. As it was, he felt bored and it required some strength of mind on his part to continue the hunt for even a week longer. At last, he determined, with grim irony, to set a time limit to his sport. If, he decided, I can get no further in ten days, I shall send her back to her studios as chaste as she was when I met her.
The last day of this period fell on the fifteenth of May, and the fifteenth of May was at hand. For this final siege Paul had arranged a luncheon at an unfrequented roadhouse off the main thoroughfare, but in the general direction of Yonkers. On any occasion it was impossible to persuade this nymph of Diana to eat in a private room, but in this particular roadhouse it was fairly certain that the main dining-room would be unoccupied at midday.
He called for Wintergreen at a little after twelve and kicked his heels restlessly in Lottie's sitting-room. It is the custom of Chinese mandarins to keep distinguished visitors waiting for an hour to show them that they are doing them the honour of preparing for the call. Wintergreen was not consciously acquainted with this code of behaviour, but her temperament precluded the possibility of her ever meeting any engagement at the time appointed. When, at last, she joined him, Paul felt that he had never before seen her appear quite so beautiful. Her straight, black hair was bound back on her head under a grape-blue cloche and her body was enclosed in a frock of cardinal crepe de chine. Her face was pale, her lips crimson, and a curious confusion of innocence and suspicion peeped out from under her long lashes.
Never amusing, except when she talked about her future career as a painter, on this afternoon Wintergreen proved to be particularly dull. Her first question, as always, was Where are we going? Once in the motor, she displayed her usual interest in the road, most of which she had traversed with Paul twenty times before. How often she had requested him to tell her the name of the beautiful drive along the river bank, and how often he had told her! She invented a new query for this oc casion, demanding information as to the exact point at which the Hudson met the North River. Once or twice, Paul attempted to clasp her hand in his palm. The first time this occurred she withdrew her hand shyly, even a little coyly, he was inclined to believe. He was led to make further effort in this direction.
I don't believe you think I'm nice, she protested.
Wintergreen—how he loved to utter that name; aside from her invulnerable chastity, it was the best excuse for his fancy for the girl—indeed, I do. I think you're very nice.
If you thought I was nice, you wouldn't do that, unless . . .
Unless what?
Nothing, she responded, turning her head away to gaze at a great castle that reared its towers on the rocks above the road.
How fast can this car go? was her next question.
I don't know, he replied carelessly. I suppose sixty or seventy miles an hour.
O! Are we driving that fast now?
We'd be arrested for speeding if we were.
How fast are we driving?
I suppose about twenty miles. Paul yawned. He made a mental vow never to undertake the seduction of another moron.
O, is that all? Tell him to drive sixty miles.
Do you want to spend the night in jail?
Why, Paul, how can you ask me such a thing? I don't believe you think I'm nice.
A suspicious tremor in her voice alarmed her escort.
Wintergreen, he explained hastily, there are laws against speeding. If we drove faster we might be arrested. That is all I meant.
Wintergreen was pacified, but not convinced. She appeared to be deliberating.
Who would arrest us? she demanded, after a pause.
Policemen are stationed along the road for that purpose.
She looked about her. I don't see any policemen, she announced, incredulous.
You never can tell where they will be.
I don't remember that we've passed any.
Sometimes they hide behind the walls.
It was evident, this time, that the girl thought he was lying to her. You don't think I'm nice or you wouldn't say that! she whimpered.
In desperation Paul appealed to the chauffeur.
Sam, have you seen any cops?
You can't spot 'em on this road, sir. They hide. But we ain't goin' fast enough to matter. Barely ten miles.
This corroboration had a brightening effect on Wintergreen. I really didn't believe, Paul, she averred, that you would treat me like a bad girl.
As Paul had foreseen, the inn was practically deserted. To be sure, the dining-room already held one occupant, but he was assuredly too drunk to be observant. His head and arms sprawled on the table before him. A high-ball glass had been overturned and the table was wet with its contents, which still dripped to the floor. Paul gave one glance at this dilapidated figure and then forgot about it.
A phonograph in one corner of the room, fortified with a repeater and an electric attachment, was negotiating without respite a curious, languid strain, sung by a Negress: I said cherry,
I mean wine.
Michigan Waters ain't like cherry wine;
I'm gwine back to Michigan to the one I left behine.
What a silly song, Wintergreen commented. Of course, Michigan water isn't like cherry wine. It isn't, she asserted, with an air of authority—had not she herself been born in Michigan?—like any kind of wine at all. It's like water, just like water anywhere; just like, she went on, in an attempt to explain her meaning more fully, the water in the Hudson River, or the water we drink. And who ever heard of a Nigger wanting to go back to Michigan?
On this last day of the siege Paul made one final attempt to ply the girl with liquor, but she was more than usually well provided with refusals. He thought of another way to please her: he would flatter her by inviting her to order the luncheon. He had cause to regret this rash act. She began by asking for alligator pears stuffed with crabmeat and bathed in mayonnaise. A filet mignon, flanked by side dishes of lima beans, green peas, and French fried potatoes, was to follow. She chose chocolate ice-cream on apple-pie to conclude this repast. As she raised no objection to Paul's drinking, he ordered a cocktail.
I said kanga—
I mean roo—
I ate so much hot rabbit that I hopped just like a kangaroo;
Daddy, if you ain't got nobody, let me hop for you.
I just love food, Wintergreen confessed.
It's good for you, little girl, he advised her. You're growing, and you need it.
Suspicious that he was spoofing her, she gave him a sullen glance, and only the arrival of the alligator pear averted an unpleasant scene.
I mean that I can't stan';
There's two kinds o' people in this world that I can't stan';
That's a two-faceted woman and a monkey man.
Not vitally interested in the pear, finding his cocktail a little acid, bored with the situation in general, reflecting that in the rôle of Casanova he appeared to be a failure, Paul's gaze wandered round the room. Across the waste of unoccupied tables he noted that the drunken fellow had not altered his position. Curious that the waiters had made no attempt to remove him. Paul's eyes strayed on until they caught the windows, and through one of these they beheld a petrifying vision. From the limbs of a crab-apple-tree in full bloom, a child, in gymnasium bloomers, hung by her calves, in such a position that she could see directly into the room. What appeared to be still more astonishing was the fact that her eyes were focused on the limp figure in the corner. An inexplicable instinct informed Paul that he was acquainted with the rural trapezist, but it was difficult to identify the features of the reversed face. His more serious scrutiny was rewarded: he recognized Consuelo!
He glanced across the table at Wintergreen. She was engaged in devouring her alligator pear in a manner suggesting that she had not tasted food for days. Don't you want mine too? he urged. I'm not hungry.
Mouth full, she assented with an Um.
Will you excuse me for a moment while I telephone?
She gave permission with another Um.
Paul hastened from the room, down the stairs, out of the door into the yard. He crept stealthily around the side of the house. Before him now, the pink blossoms of the crab-apple-trees, set on a green embankment, hugged the blue of the sky. Consuelo had abandoned her striking posture and was sitting on the bough, while a prim, elderly woman below was imploring her to descend.
Consuelo, please, please, come down!
I won't. Not yet.
If you don't come down at once I shall be obliged to telephone your mother.
I don't care. She can't get here for another hour.
I'll fetch a ladder, the woman threatened.
Miss Graves, if you do that I'll climb to the topmost branch and leap to another tree.
Nimbly, like a monkey, to exhibit her prowess, she made her way from limb to limb. Pink petals in showers fluttered to the verdant sward. The governess wrung her hands and wept. What shall I do? she moaned. What shall I do? What a child!
At this moment Consuelo caught sight of Paul.
Why, Mr. Moody, she cried, what in the world are you doing here?
I might ask you the same question, he replied. Please come down and tell me.
Friend or enemy?
Friend.
I'll come down. Projecting her body towards the trunk of the tree she slid earthwards.
Now! Paul demanded.
Now! Consuelo echoed. Very well. I've no secrets. Gunnar returned to the gymnasium today—I always knew he would—and when he left, I followed him.
I couldn't persuade her not to, Miss Graves whined. The best I could do was to accompany her. I'll lose my position without a reference.
Paul was not listening to the governess's explanation. Followed Gunnar? he queried, mystified. Then, where is he?
In there! Consuelo announced, pointing towards the window.
In there! Why there's nobody in there!
Yes, he is, with his head on the table.
That can't be Gunnar. That fellow's drunk.
Gunnar is drunk, she affirmed positively. He was drunk when he came to the gymnasium. That's why I couldn't talk to him there! That's why I can't talk to him now!
Well, what do you propose to do?
It's enough to be near him, but I think I'll stay here until he is sober.
You might have to wait a week.
I know, and Miss Graves is so impatient. Can't you persuade her to be sensible?
Paul, on reflection, came to the conclusion that this task might prove difficult. I'll tell you what I'll do, he said. I'll go inside and talk to him.
That's a splendid suggestion, Consuelo agreed, and I'll go with you.
Paul remembered Wintergreen. No, Consuelo, he protested, that won't do. You say yourself that he's intoxicated. Did you bring a car?
Pointing to a taxi, parked in the automobile shed, Consuelo said. That's mine.
Jump in then, and wait until I see what can be done.
You promise to come back?
Of course, I'll come back.
After escorting the child and her governess to the car, Paul made his way back into the house and up the stairs to the dining-room. His first thought was of Wintergreen. He must appease her after his long absence. Sighting her table, a new miracle met his eye: Wintergreen with a cocktail before her and with Gunnar's right arm around her shoulders. They chose this precise moment to kiss.
I'll be damned! cried Paul.
The pair looked up. An expression of annoyance crossed the girl's countenance.
You leave us alone! she growled.
Ignoring her protestation, Paul cried, Gunnar, I'm delighted to find you again!
Who're you? O'Grady shot out thickly. O, Moody. Well, get out!
Paul, puzzled, persisted. Why, Gunnar, what's the matter?
You heard him, Wintergreen affirmed grimly.
Paul could not resist this opening. I thought, he commented, that you were a nice girl!
Dare call her anything else?
Turning to Gunnar, Wintergreen presented him first with her admiring glance, then with her lips.
Well, I'll be damned! Paul ejaculated once more. Was there, reasonably, any alternative comment?
Let's get out of this! Gunnar urged. Let's get a private room. Waiter, he called, we want a room upstairs where we won't be interrupted.
Certainly, Mr. O'Grady.
And bring up some wine! he called over his shoulder as, with Wintergreen on his arm, he staggered out of the restaurant.
I said black cat's—
I mean bone;
I believe to my soul my man's got a black cat's bone;
Every time I leave I gotta come back home.
Presently, Paul was rejoined by the waiter.
I'm sorry, Mr. Moody, he was apologizing. I hope you'll understand. I don't want to argue with him. He's dangerously strong when he's drunk.
Does he come here often? Paul demanded, dazed.
Every day for two weeks. Never saw him in my life before that. It's easy to tell he ain't used to drink. It hits him hard, makes him very ugly, sir. Sometimes he breaks things. There was a nasty row last week, sir. He almost killed a man.
Has he . . . has he ever been here with her?
Your girl, sir?
Paul's smile was sardonic. Yes, he replied, my . . . girl.
He never saw her before, sir. I'll swear to that. He just went over to your table and sat down. I was serving the filet mignon, sir. I was standing right by the table. He looked at her hard and she caved right in. I tried to tell him it was your table, sir, but she yelled out it was none o' my business, and asked the fellow to sit down. He sat down all right. Then he kissed her. He's got a look in his eyes . . .
I know, said Paul. Does he bring girls here often?
Never, sir. He's always alone and he never picked one up here before. He's a strange case, and he's very strong when he's drunk.
They were interrupted by a furious hubbub in the hall.
You'll let us go upstairs, a man's voice was shouting. I've got a warrant.
I'll tell the cockeyed world we'll go upstairs, a woman shrieked.
What is it? Paul demanded. A raid?
It looks like they're after the girl, sir. Trying to get something on her. If it was federal agents they'd come in here first. You're in luck to be out of it, sir.
Paul grinned. The turn affairs had taken was food for amusement. Apparently, Wintergreen was at last losing her chastity without any trouble on his part, and, fortuitously, he was evading some kind of legal wrath. He lighted a cigarette.
Come on, he urged the waiter. I want to see the fun.
He led the way to the corridor. The search party had ascended the stairs and at present were audibly demanding admittance to a closed room. Presently, Paul heard the door crack. The detectives were forcing it with their shoulders.
Backing against the wall Paul went on up until he could see the men at work. A young woman stood by screaming advice couched in coruscating slang. At last, with a shower of splinters and a wooden groan, the door gave way. Gunnar, partially undressed, the huge muscles bulging on his arms, loomed in the opening.
Another step, and by God, I'll kill you all! he threatened.
He can do it, too, the waiter suggested. Better leave him alone.
We got what we come for, one of the detectives announced. We got the evidence.
You've ruined her, Paul Moody, the woman shrieked, and you'll pay the penalty.
I'm not Paul Moody, Gunnar protested stubbornly.
You get to hell out of here, Lottie Coulter! Wintergreen, in her chemise, flaming with wrath, appeared behind her champion in the doorway. How dare you do this to me!
Don't high hat me, Winter. You told me to come yourself! You tipped me off.
I told you to find me and Paul. I said nothing whatever about this gentleman.
You mean . . . ? Lottie gasped, falteringly.
I mean you're a damn fool!
Paul, who in the confusion had escaped attention, slunk down the stairs. Lighting another cigarette, he strolled slowly out of the house.
Whew! he muttered. What an escape!
He rejoined Consuelo and Miss Graves.
You can't see him now, he informed the child. It's impossible. Suppose you let me take you home.
Then I'll lose him again, Consuelo sobbed. I can't bear to lose him again.
I'm afraid we've all lost him, Paul asserted gravely.
What do you mean? Has he killed himself?
Paul reflected. His thoughts rapidly flew back to the evening he had discovered Gunnar in the furnace-room. He recalled, as in a daze, the occasions on which they had met since. And, finally, a vision of what he had just seen in the inn passed before his eyes. It was all too much for his understanding. He mopped his perspiring face with his handkerchief.
I don't know, he replied.
New York
October 16, 1924