“But don’t worry, my dearest girl!” said Lionel.
“I can’t help it,” said Frances. “It’s such a waste. We could just as well take a train. Or anyway the taxi needn’t wait. We could always find another.”
They were on the veranda of a hotel at Long Beach, on a Sunday afternoon, part of the crowd that Lionel liked so much.
“We might not,” he said. “There’s such a mob here. Better take no chances. As for the train—no, thanks! Now, do be a nice kid, and not scold me. Don’t you want me to have any pleasures at all?”
“That’s not the question. Oh, Lionel, we could have just as nice a time without being so dreadfully wasteful. It’s ... why, Lionel, it’s mad!”
She had a genuine dislike for extravagance and frivolity. Old traditions from remote Defoe ancestors urged her always toward prudence and restraint. She really couldn’t enter into Lionel’s mood, couldn’t for a moment be careless, and would never pretend to be. She wanted dignity and purpose; she was fond enough of fun, but it wasn’t his kind. She could not enjoy watching other people spend money. Lionel didn’t care to swim, or to walk; he was quite happy to sit on a crowded veranda, drinking cocktails and chaffing his serious girl. He was happy now, in watching the streams of people going in and out of the hotel, over-dressed, over-perfumed, over-fed, over-stimulated. But there was nothing here for Frankie.
All this life that Lionel had pulled her into distressed her. He had urged her to give up her business course, and instead they went out somewhere every evening. Miss Eppendorfer was always ready to let her go, as long as she wasn’t left alone. She absolutely approved of Lionel. From her point of view, he was the ideal lover, attractive and lavish. He was continually bringing presents to Frankie, flowers, chocolates and books. He refused to believe that she was not very fond of sweets, and was deaf to her hints that her taste in reading was not his. She felt like a prig, a bluestocking, with her perpetual advice and rebuke. Her serious soul was in revolt against this waste of time; often when they were at some blatant cabaret, she would be longing for her quiet room and a good book. She was really weary of this ceaseless pleasure-hunt, disgusted, and yet hadn’t the heart to deny his pleasures to Lionel. He never read a book, and was no more capable or desirous of quiet than a small boy.
She took it for granted that he was more or less a rich man, and that as his wife she would be obliged to endure a good deal of this sort of existence. She did ask him, though, if he wouldn’t just as soon live out of town, and he said, whatever she liked. So she was able to picture herself in one of those charming suburban houses on the Sound, with a fine garden, and horses, and dogs. And undoubtedly children; lovely, happy children.
He had started to work in his brother’s office, which pleased Frankie, for she had the American woman’s dislike for an unoccupied man. He said he was doing well, and talked of an early marriage. But that, too, was against Frankie’s principles. She wanted to wait, not because she wasn’t sure of herself or of him, but because a hasty marriage appeared somehow indecent to her. She even refused to tell her own people.
“Wait till I’ve known you a little longer,” she said.
Taken all in all, this “being engaged” was not what Frankie had expected, was by no means the happiest time of her life, as she had always been told it would be. With Lionel, per se, she could find no fault. If he had been made to order for a Defoe he could not have been more satisfactory. He was almost like a brother in his manner, never too ardent, too pressing, or in any way offending her squeamishness. It was for this she really adored him, for his delicacy and genuine kindliness. She was too ignorant fully to appreciate it; she was simply vaguely thankful that he was not like “some men” of whom she had read and heard.
Moreover, she had a little of Horace’s absurd admiration for Lionel’s social graces. All the solid, substantial, serious people in the world have it, this irrational and somewhat pathetic regard for the others, the spenders, the wasters, the ones who refuse to conform to their righteous code, the gay and audacious good-for-nothings. She knew that she wouldn’t have dared to do as he did, live after his style. Sometimes she had misgivings, fancied her ideas for the future were sordid and petty, her hope for an orderly, self-respecting sort of existence, the house in the suburbs, with books and lectures and intellectual friends.... An existence that had no place for the poor fellow’s febrile excitements.
Characteristically she got Lionel into the picture by assuring herself that he would change.
There came one day a careless little note, scrawled in huge letters on a bizarre card with a purple and gold monogram:
“Won’t you come for dinner on Thursday?
“Julie Naylor.”
Lionel explained it to her when he arrived that evening.
“Horace made her,” he said. “If she had her own way, I don’t think she’d ever ask a woman into the house. Of course she’s out of the question. Impossible. But for Horace’s sake, I wish you’d come. He’s a decent old boy. And he likes you. Thought you were the prettiest thing he’s seen You’ll go, won’t you?”
Upon reflection, it seemed the correct thing to do, and she consented.
Miss Eppendorfer helped her to get ready on the very important evening. She took the greatest interest in the whole affair, was very arch about it. Frances persisted in her “nothing really settled yet,” but Miss Eppendorfer refused to believe it.
“Oh, I know all about such things!” she said.
This evening was to mark the end of the feeble pretence, anyway. Lionel came for her a little early, and Miss Eppendorfer undertook to entertain him until Frankie was ready. She heard them talking gaily together, in their usual vein of preposterous flirtation. She surmised the customary brandy and soda, and she felt her invariable shade of annoyance at their camaraderie. If Lionel would only be—not condescending of course, but—oh, a little more
An unusually loud shriek from the authoress startled her.
“Oh, you extravagant boy! What a beauty! What a perfect beauty!”
She hurried a bit then, and entered the room, looking her very best and loveliest, dignified, concealing her curiosity. They were on the sofa side by side, a little table before them holding the siphon and the brandy bottle, their heads together over something in the authoress’s hand. Directly she saw Frankie, she thrust the thing back at Lionel.
“You must show it to her!” she cried, in great excitement.
Lionel extended his hand, proffered her her ring
It was the conventional single diamond, set in platinum, a stone so pure and beautiful and of such a size that Frances almost gasped. Her face showed no pleasure at first, nothing but blank dismay. She barely stopped herself in time from saying:
“But oh, how terribly expensive!”
He put it on her finger, and she smiled in duty bound. But secretly it terrified her. It was so much too splendid. Perhaps she had a premonition that it was an unlucky ring
Lionel was disappointed. He looked into Frankie’s face as they sat in the taxi, and waited for her to praise it.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked, at last, as she said nothing.
“Oh, yes, dear,” she answered, touched by his wistful tone, and, as she very rarely did, kissed him. “It’s beautiful. Too beautiful!”
Horace lived in an overwhelmingly grand apartment house on Riverside Drive. His private door was opened by a man servant, and Frances was conducted to a boudoir where a French maid waited to assist her. She was a little nervous at the unexpectedly sumptuous tone of the establishment; she wasn’t accustomed to rich people. She dreaded meeting the mistress of such a household, not only on account of the unfavourable reports she had had from Lionel, but also on account of her richness. A most ignoble awe, from which no living soul is immune.... It might be too that she felt a warning shudder, could divine the shadow of the pain she was to suffer here. She never again entered that house, but she remembered always every detail of what she had seen there. It was the setting, the stage of such an unforgettably bitter scene.
She was glad to find Horace alone, although she was not pleased by her hostess’s delay. He was in the “library,” a panelled room, dimly and richly lighted by Oriental lamps and crowded with massive furniture. (She didn’t see any books.) He was very cordial and kind, though melancholy. He apologised for Julie.
“She was late getting in,” he explained, “and it takes her the deuce of a time to get herself ready.”
It certainly did, for it was quite half an hour more before she appeared.
“I’m sorry, people!” she cried, running into the room, and swept them all with a smile.
This Julie, the impossible, the cruel, the vulgar! This sparkling lovely thing, with her piquant dark face and the figure of a nymph! Frances found it hard to believe.... Except that she was over-dressed, in a glittering sort of ball gown, and that her voice was not at all agreeable.
“I shouldn’t call her ‘impossible,’” she thought. “In fact, I think she’s fascinating.”
And so long as she confined herself solely to looking at Julie, she did find her fascinating. She was very young—years younger than Horace, and filled with an ardent vitality. She produced an extraordinary effect of brilliancy, although her conversation was far from clever. She was one of those people who absolutely take one’s breath away; her glances, her gestures, her gipsy vividness wrought a spell; one could watch her in a daze, indefinitely.
But the fascination wore off a bit for Frances after she had experienced something of Julie’s famous rudeness. She was utterly ignored. Horace tried to talk to her, but he was not fluent, and his dinner engrossed him. She had nothing to do but listen to Julie talking to Lionel, a torrent of gossip about people not personally known to either of them, glib comment on plays and books and fashions and dances. Lionel’s interest lay in just these things; he had as many stories as she: those mysterious tales of prominent people, confidential to a degree, heard from someone who really knows.... If Lionel hated and despised Julie and she loathed him, they dissembled it well. They were friendly, they were more than friendly, they were comrades. He had never talked with such interest to Frankie!
“Did you notice Mrs. Lord on the Avenue yesterday, Li? I never saw such a fool. A skirt like that with her celebrated bowlegs!”
And so on. The impossibleness of Julie was now fully evident to Frances, the gross vulgarity beneath her dainty charm, the malice, the nastiness in her shallow heart. She was glad Lionel didn’t like her; she told herself that his absorption in her chatter was only politeness.
When the dinner was over, she retired with Julie to a little music room, where Julie began to smoke. She changed abruptly now that there were no men about, became frankly, brutally hard.
“Well!” she said. “You’ve picked a winner! When Horace told me Li was going to be married, I couldn’t believe it. I told him there wasn’t a girl on earth who’d be such a fool.”
“Why?” asked Frances coldly.
“The boy’s a joke, my dear child! A perfect joke! The biggest idiot there is. He spent all the money his mother left him in two years, just making a fool of himself. And now he expects to sit down on Horace for the rest of his little life. It makes me sick.”
Frances had grown rather pale.
“I suppose he thinks he is welcome in his brother’s house,” she said.
“Lord! He knows I’m sick and tired of his hanging about. It’s not that! He doesn’t care whether he’s welcome or not. He worries us to death. And that chump of a Horace always gives in to him. I only hope you’ll be able to do something with him. I’ve told old Horace we didn’t understand that in this country—a young, able-bodied man sitting round the house, living on someone else. I said if Horace had any money to waste, he could waste it on me. I can do with all he’s got!”
Frances, shocked, outraged, stunned by this sudden and vigorous attack, tried to rally.
“He does work,” she said.
“Work! My God! Horace told me himself what an infernal nuisance Li is in the office. He comes in late and fiddles about a bit, and then goes uptown again. Work! He just likes to call the money he gets out of Horace a salary instead of graft. It comforts his little pride. Let’s see your ring!” she demanded suddenly.
Frances took it off and handed it to her.
“Two carats! And look at the setting! For God’s sake! I bet poor Horace had to shell out heavily for that!”
Frances did not put it on again; she held it in her hand. She was in anguish, so great that she was afraid she would not be able to hide it much longer. It called for every ounce of self-control she possessed to speak in a fairly natural voice.
“I didn’t understand the situation,” she said, “and I’m sure—he didn’t—entirely realise”
“I’ve spoken plainly enough to make him ‘realise.’ No; he’s a hopeless case; I only wanted to warn you that Horace isn’t going to take care of a whole family. Oh, don’t get furious! I know you didn’t know about it! Only Li’s a grafter born and bred.”
“You misjudge him,” said Frances sternly. She wasn’t going to be routed by this horrible little savage. “I don’t think you’re able to understand a man of his type.”
“My Lord! I’ve met dozens like him. Just a nice, harmless little grafter. You’ll find them in every hotel in the city. My dear child, I know men mighty well. I’ve had experience!”
Then, to Frankie’s indescribable relief, she left the topic of Lionel and began a history of her own life, with particular emphasis on her suitors. Her father had been a “Cattle King,” she told her, in all seriousness, a millionaire. She had been brought up on a ranch, and then sent to school in the East, to “finish.”
“The best school in New York,” she said. “Dad had a hard time to get me in. But I hated it. I had a great deal of talent for drawing, so I just walked out of the school and got a studio in Washington Square, and plunged right in. I got lots of work from the start, fashions and society sketches. Popper was tickled to death. He said he’d double every cent I made, and he did. He likes independence. But I gave that all up when I got married. I’ve taken up dancing. I’ve got a regular gift for it. I could go on the stage to-morrow if I wanted. I’ve had offers from the big managers.”
The men came in then, and she offered an exhibition.
“I’ll show you the dance I’m going to do in the Fresh Air Fund Bazaar. You play, Li; go over this music while I get ready,” and she disappeared for a long time.
Lionel sat down at the piano and began obediently to try the music she had handed him; a sensual, banal thing, called new, but very reminiscent. He turned his head to smile at Frankie, and then gave his attention to the music, innocently satisfied with the answering smile he had had from her. The light from the lamp shone on his sleek head; he looked so young, so very slim, so fragile and well-bred; her heart ached for him in his unconscious shame. Of course, of course, he didn’t realise! She no more despised him than a mother despises a greedy child.
Julie came back in a costume which completed Frankie’s nightmare of misery and shame. She called it Hindu. Her slim legs and feet were bare, and her body so gauzily covered.... Frances involuntarily glanced at her husband, but he was staring up at the smoke rings he was blowing.
Her dancing was good—quite beautiful. But Frances was not an artist, not an æsthete; she was something of a prig and very much of a Defoe. A little—a tiny bit more of either in her nature would have turned the balance and sent her to her feet in terrible indignation. However, she was able to endure the exhibition with apparent coolness, watched the half-naked Julie twisting supplely before Lionel’s eyes without a visible trace of what she felt.
But how immeasurably glad she was to get away!
“Please send away the taxi,” she asked Lionel. “I’d like to walk a little way. And talk to you.”
Cheerful and unsuspicious, he complied.
“Wonderful night!” he remarked, looking with grateful eyes at the river.
She clutched his arm.
“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, and he was startled to hear a sob in her voice.
“What’s wrong, dearest girl?” he asked anxiously, trying to see her face in the dark.
“That awful—that dreadful, disgusting woman” she said, in a broken voice. “Oh, Lionel! You can’t imagine!...”
“Did she say anything to upset you, old girl?”
“It’s not that It’s ... I didn’t know”
She dried her eyes and spoke more calmly, all her courage, all her pride, all her love impelling her. She held out the ring, glittering marvellously in the light of a street lamp.
He stared at it in stupefaction.
“Frances!” he cried.
“Please take it! Lionel! My dear boy! I couldn’t wear it.... She said—he had to pay for it. That it’s all his money.... Oh, my dear old Lionel, don’t you see? I’ll wait—till you can get me one—of your own!”
Regardless of passers-by, he put his arm about her waist.
“Frankie,” he said, “I’ll do exactly what you want—always. I know I’m not nearly good enough for you. Only tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want you to be a man!” she cried passionately, and began to cry again.