by Vera Caspary
The cellar door kept up its clatter. Charlie’s eyes roved from the flight of ducks to the books on the bed table. As he read the titles the sense of the past was shed, and Charlie knew his mother had been dead these eight months and that his wife, Bedelia, had chosen these books. Bedelia’s taste was hideous. Charlie had tried to wean her away from Laura Jean Libbey by reading aloud to her from Carlyle’s French Revolution. She had listened dutifully at the beginning, but, later, had confessed that good books put her to sleep.
Charlie opened the first book. It was just what he had expected. A beautiful heroine with windswept locks was caught in the jungle. In the distance, tomtoms. The black chieftan was just about to drag Lady Pamela from the compound when Cyril arrived to rescue her from a fate worse than death. Single-handedly, the hero fought and conquered the savage horde, love triumphed, and in Cyril’s manly arms, Lady Pamela laughed away the memory of that quarrel which had separated them at the tennis party given by the false Rosamund.
Charlie was moved, not by their extraordinary virtues and tribulations, but by their Christian names, Pamela, Cyril, Rosamund. Never Mary nor Bill nor Pete nor Jane.
Maurine. Chloe. Annabel.
What about Bedelia?
The name of her father was Courtney Vance.
She had often entertained Charlie with amusing or dramatic accounts of her experiences. Now, as he tried to put her stories in chronological order, he realized that she had never told her life-story consecutively, but always in bits and pieces. His eyes fixed on the flight of wild ducks, he saw the child Bedelia, Bedelia Vance, with the dark curls down her back as sedately she followed her governess down the steps of the mansion in San Francisco. Her father had been an English gentleman, but his father had been a younger son without fortune and had come to California during the gold rush. Her mother’s people were Irish, good blood, but ruined by their love of horses and the ingratitude of the peasantry. But the grandfather had struck gold, dinners for twenty-four had been set on gold plate in a dining-room with stained-glass windows, music had floated up to the nursery where the child, Bedelia, slept in a nightgown of the finest French flannel, hand-stitched by the family seamstress. The earthquake of 1906 cost them their fortune and the girls at the boarding-school, who had slavishly followed Bedelia’s every whim, turned against her and made her so miserable that she had to run away. Orphaned, poverty-stricken, with only her pride to sustain her, Bedelia had found a situation as companion to a wealthy, irascible old lady who had treated her miserably at first, but later learned to love her like a daughter. At a fashionable resort in the East . . . Asbury Park, it was . . . the youthful companion had met and loved a young millionaire who had wanted to marry her and endow her with his fortune, but had been kept from happiness by his people who were against that girl because she was poor and had to work for her living. The young millionaire had died of tuberculosis and shortly afterward the no-longer irascible old lady had passed on, too, leaving Bedelia a legacy which had resulted in a lawsuit by the old lady’s relations, who were greedy people and naturally against a girl who had won the love and affection which they had sought in vain. Rather than demean herself by fighting for money in a public court, she had fled to Chicago, where she had tried to earn an honest living in a shirtwaist factory, a sweatshop it really was, but she would have been content to work there humbly had not she been forced to flee the proprietor’s evil advances. It was during this flight that she had met Raoul Cochran.
This was the first time Charlie had considered his wife’s history as a whole and he saw it as unadulterated Laura Jean Libbey. The separate stories told at different times had seemed quite real to him. There had been no reason to distrust the warm voice nor to seek deceit in those dark eyes. Why should he, who had been captivated by her, doubt the passion of the consumptive millionaire, the gratitude of the irascible old lady, the advances of the shirtwaist manufacturer?
The three-four clatter continued. Charlie turned out the light, resolved that he would fall asleep immediately. The cellar door became the tomtoms that Lady Pamela had heard in the jungle, and Charlie felt himself turn cold all over, moistly cold as if the water were closing over him. He struggled in the dark, trying to extricate himself from the thick weeds and to find the posts of the pier.
McKelvey had died of ptomaine poisoning after a fish dinner. His wife had eaten a warmed-over chop that night because she disliked fish. “Bedelia,” Charlie said as he stumbled through the dark to discover the source of the clatter, “Bedelia is fond of fish. Particularly fresh-water fish like trout and perch. And also of shellfish, clams, oysters, crabs, and lobster.”
The cellar door was not guilty. It had been fastened with a sound new catch. Charlie, usually so keen at locating sounds in the night, was baffled by it. He was not even sure that it was real. His nerves were unsteady, his imagination working overtime. Just as he had made up his mind that there had never been a clatter, it started again.
He shuffled up the attic stairs in his loose slippers and stretched out his hand to find the light bulb hat hung from a twisted cord in the center of the bewildering blackness. His coming disturbed the mice who wintered there. He heard the swift, dainty scraping of their feet and felt something cold scratch across his bare instep.
Jacobs had been a Jew, one of those devoted husbands, probably the sort who brings his wife flowers on Saturday and takes out more life insurance than he can afford. How does one go about drowning a man in the bathtub? Had Jacobs been drugged, too, or was he taken by surprise, tickled and teased until two frail hands were able, gently, to push him under? The water had been warm, sea green against the white tub, the bathroom had smelled of moisture and scented soap, and circles of water had formed about the dark head.
“Christ! I’m going crazy!”
He spoke aloud. His oath echoed in the dark attic. His hand found and lost the light. He groped for it and the dark was water closing over his head. Quite out of breath, he resolved to give up, but grew angry, stamped on the floor, and reached out again for the light. At length he found it, turned the switch, was assaulted by the sudden burst of brightness, saw the lean rafters and dense attic shadows, shuffled over to a window, opened it, shivered in the wind and felt for the hooks of the shutters. This he did four times until he made certain that every shutter was secure. As he started back and raised his hand to switch off the light, he hesitated, fearing the journey of a few feet to the attic stairs. He might have let the light burn, saved his nerves, and come upstairs in the morning to switch it off. But that was not Charlie Horst, who had been taught good sense and thrift when he was young and despised himself for knowing fear. He turned out the light and descended the stairs apprehensively while the three-four clatter pursued him.
Safe in bed again, he asked himself indignantly what sort of man would take a stranger’s word before his wife’s and allow his imagination to be inflamed by a cheap love-story. Tomorrow in honest daylight he would sift all the facts, separate truth from fantasy, weigh evidence, and face honestly whatever he came to believe. In the meantime he would forget the whole thing and refresh himself with a night’s sleep.
Damn Ben Chaney! Charlie had been happy until he came along, had considered himself the luckiest man in the world. If Ben had never come to the gate that October afternoon, asking if they knew of a house that he might rent in the neighborhood! If Charlie had not been rash and profligate with his money, taking out more insurance than was reasonable for a man of his income! If his stomach had not gone back on him last week and brought about the situation that had caused all this trouble! If McKelvey had not sighed when the bedsprings creaked, if Jacobs had not groaned with every tick of the clock, if Barrett had not stood guard over his bed, blowing his cold breath on Charlie’s face!
There was only one way to solve the problem. That was the straight way, the shortest distance between two points of view. Charlie must face his wife with it and say, “Bedelia, my dearest love, Ben has told me an absurd story. Naturally I do
n’t believe a word, the man must be mad, and I understand why feminine instinct has warned you against him, but since his story concerns you, it’s better that you know it.” He heard his voice repeating Ben’s story, telling her about Maurine Barrett and the man on the boat who had greeted her as Mrs. Jacobs. He saw Bedelia’s face as she listened, courteously but without much concern.
The vision was comforting. Strengthened by good common sense, he resolved to speak of it frankly in the morning. The scene might cause her pain, but it would put an end to all doubts. Firm in the belief that the night’s phantoms would be dissolved by honest daylight, Charlie fell asleep.
6
“CHARLIE, DEAR,” BEDELIA SAID. IT WAS ALMOST eleven o’clock and Charlie had not yet carried out his resolution to tell her Ben Chaney’s story. He had not forgotten it nor changed his mind. His first thought on opening his eyes that morning had been of his vow. But Bedelia had slept late. Charlie had done all the housework while he waited for her to awaken. The tasks had become irksome. He had been fidgety, aware of every passing minute, every thought that entered his mind, every movement of his muscles. Yet he wanted the house clean before he faced her with his questions. He did not wish to create a disorder of the emotions before there was order in his house. For then there would never be any tidiness to steady him.
At half-past ten she had called him to say that she was awake and ready for her breakfast. Her fever was down, but she was coughing badly and Charlie thought it better that she remain in the bedroom that day. She wore a handsome gown of green serge with bell-shaped sleeves that were embroidered in gold, black, and red.
“Charlie, dear, I think I should like an egg this morning.”
“Yes, dear.”
When he returned with the breakfast tray, she had made up the bedroom. The rose-colored moiré spread lay smooth upon the bed, and the pillows were tucked into the bolster. The room was like a stage set for the big scene. Charlie decided that he would let her eat her breakfast before he began his inquisition. He set the tray upon a small table by the window and lined the upholstered chair with cushions for her. Bedelia ate slowly, looking out of the window and dreaming between sips of coffee.
Outside the window the world shone. Clean, unbroken snow stretched to the horizon. On each side of the river the dark rocks were bearded with icicles; and icicles, catching the sunlight and sending off rainbows, hung from the roof and window-frames.
At last her coffee cup was empty. Charlie moved his chair closer so that there was only the small table, set with empty dishes, between him and his wife. Bedelia had fallen into a reverie. The bones of her face were neatly modeled and her skin shone with a fine luster. Appreciating these qualities but looking beyond them for something deeper, Charlie willed her to return his glance.
“Why were you so upset when Ben mentioned Keene Barrett?”
Suddenly the whole thing seemed absurd to Charlie. McKelvey, Jacobs, and Barrett were merely specters and could not endure in the clear daylight. The blue fishermen on the willow-ware plates were more real.
“Ben is a liar. There’s not a word of truth in anything he says.” Bedelia said this calmly as if Charlie’s sudden and irrelevant question had not disturbed her. In the same level voice she asked, “Do you love me?”
He did not answer. The specters, happily, were fading. So long as they remained ghosts, creatures of Ben Chaney’s cruelty and Charlie’s tormented imagination, they could never touch nor hurt the Horsts. But once Charlie heard his wife speak their names, McKelvey, Jacobs, and Barrett would no longer be phantoms but corpses of men who had once been happy husbands.
“You loved me yesterday. You loved me until he came and told you those lies.”
“How did you know he’d been here?”
“The doorbell woke me up. I heard him say the Keeley boys had taught him to use snowshoes.”
“Why didn’t you mention it?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“If you know what he told me, Bedelia, you know why.”
“You believed him. That’s why you were afraid to tell me.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Charlie said.
“It hurts me more for you to believe lies about me. I don’t see how you could. His lies! He’s the most deceitful man I’ve ever met. He’s never told a word of truth since we’ve known him.”
“Then you know what he said?” Charlie asked hesitantly.
“Do you remember what I told you last night? If I didn’t love you so much I wouldn’t be having the baby. I needn’t have, you know.”
“Were you pregnant when you first told me about it? Or was it a trick to get me to increase my insurance?”
She went scarlet. The doll’s mouth became a thin line.
“About this man from St. Paul, Bedelia? Barrett. What about him?”
“It’s four months. Pretty soon I’ll be feeling life.”
It was an obvious appeal for sympathy and Charlie had no right to let himself be touched by it. But this was such a natural thing for a woman to say that it made everything seem right again, and he felt as a husband ought to feel when his wife talks to him of the growth of the child in her womb. The rocker groaned. Charlie caught himself thinking that he ought to speak to Bedelia about oiling the furniture.
She raised her head defiantly. “It’s just like Ben to believe the Barretts.”
Charlie gasped.
“They were always against me. You must believe me, Charlie. Do you?”
There it was, her confession, not in the words Charlie had expected but no less real. One phantom became a husband.
Although he had been steeling himself against this moment, Charlie cringed. His face was twisted and his body twitching. He closed his eyes, thinking that if he shut her out of his sight he would stand it better.
Bedelia watched intently. When at last she saw Charlie’s eyes open, she threw him an appealing glance. He would not look at her, but she hurried on with her excuses, wooing him, hoping to win his sympathy. “They were furious when Will married me. Keene’s wife wanted him to marry an heiress, some girl whose father had a seat on the Stock Exchange. When they found out he’d married a penniless girl, they were horrid. Wait till you see Keene. He’s got a mouth like a pocketbook.” Her mouth became shrewd and greedy in imitation of Keene’s. “He doesn’t talk much. You’d think words cost money. When Keene and Hazel found out about Will’s leaving me all of his insurance, they were horrid to me, just horrid.” Bedelia’s eyes narrowed. She shuddered slightly. “They’re trying to make trouble for me now because they think they can scare me into giving them some of the money back.”
The irascible old lady’s relations had been against her, too, and the family of the consumptive millionaire who had wanted her to inherit his fortune.
There was a long silence, and then Charlie said, “Ben told me the Keene Barretts were fond of you. After your husband died they tried their best to comfort you.”
“Fond of me!” Her nostrils quivered. “I wish you’d heard the insults. Hazel couldn’t stand it when Will bought me my fur coat. The best Keene would give her was plush with a tiny little Persian lamb collar. Well, she’s got my moleskin now and everything else that was mine.”
“That’s right, you left it with her, didn’t you? Why?”
“She’d have to add fifty skins to get it around her bust. This is all a plot to get my money away from me. It’s like Keene to spend on detectives.”
“If there’s no more to it than that,” Charlie said, “why did you run away?”
“I told you. The Barretts made my life miserable.”
“Why did you change your name?”
“I was frightened.” She lowered her eyelids as if her enemies were confronting her, and she wished to avoid their faces. “I knew they’d stop at nothing to find me and get my money away from me.”
“It wouldn’t have been necessary to change your name. The insurance money was legally yours and they couldn’t have got it away fr
om you.”
“Is that so?” she asked gravely.
“Bedelia, please tell me the truth,” Charlie begged. “I’m not against you, I’m . . .” he was reluctant to pledge love, and he said instead, “and I want to help you.”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She looked hurt.
“You gave me a false name when we met. And when we married, you let them put that false name on our marriage certificate. I don’t even know whether we’re legally husband and wife.”
“Oh!” she cried. “That’s terrible.”
“Not so terrible as the other things,” Charlie said.
“But I want to be married to you.”
“Didn’t you want to be married to the others?”
She rested against the back of the chair and looked down at her folded hands. Charlie had never before seen her sulky or ill-mannered.
“Didn’t you want to be married to the others?”
“There were no others,” she said to her hands. “No others except you and Will.”
“What about Raoul Cochran?”
She waited a minute and then she gave him such a heart-breaking glance that he forgot how wicked she was and regretted his harshness. Thirty seconds later he was sorry that he had offered the flash of sympathy and despised himself because he was not a strong man who could tussle with evil and conquer in fifteen minutes.
A cloud slid over the sun. The day’s purity and sparkle died. The snow was a dirty grayness. Down the road moved a dozen men bundled to the ears, shoveling snow off the road, piling it in soiled heaps. Charlie saw the question in Bedelia’s eyes and nodded. Their isolation would soon be over. The poor of the town were opening the road to their door.
AT NOON THE men stopped work, climbed into wagons and were carried off.
“They’ve gone,” Bedelia said.
Apparently Charlie had not heard. He had lost all sense of time, of the things around him, and of his peculiar situation. The clock struck, but he did not count its notes. Bedelia watched nervously as he walked up and down, his eyes on the carpet.