Men of No Property

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  “We couldn’t do it, I told you!” he cried. “Pa won’t give me till I prove myself!”

  “Wherever you went, Matt, when we were married I was willing to go, too.”

  He caught her arm and pulled her around to where the light shone up on her face. “Then you’ll come back to the diggin’s with me in the mornin’.”

  “In the morning we’ll talk about it, Matt,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Now I must fix my hair.” He let her arm go as she leaned across him to reach the comb for her coiffure.

  “No, Peg. Now. You can tell ’em goodbye when you go out there. You done real nice for them tonight.”

  “Thank you,” she said with irony.

  A voice called from beyond the partition. “Are you coming, Margaret?”

  “Coming,” she called back.

  “Who’s that?” said Matt.

  “John Redmond,” she said, smiling quickly as she sometimes did in temper. “”Wouldn’t you like to meet him?”

  “Not even in the outhouse,” Matt said.

  Without a word she went to the doorway.

  “Are you goin’ to tell ’em, Peg?”

  “I shall be back in a few minutes, Matt. You can wash at the stand there while you’re waiting if you like.”

  “If you don’t tell ’em, I’m comin’ out and do it myself.”

  A table was spread on the stage with white linen, and when Peg made her way to it the whole company turned, glasses in hands, to toast her. She curtseyed to the toast and caught up a glass in which the tiny beads were dancing: “To long and prosperous days together.”

  “I hear your husband’s returned,” Foley said to her apart.

  “He’ll be on the stage any minute, God help us,” Peg said.

  “He’s rousin’ drunk, is he? It’s the first thing they do coming back from the fields, or for some of them maybe the second.”

  “It’s not amusing,” Peg said. “He wants me to go back with him tomorrow.”

  “God’s teeth, he does!” cried Foley. “A pretty chance he has of that. Has he struck it rich?”

  For all the success of the night, Peg thought, looking up at the man, the wild gleam came into Foley’s eye at the thought of a rich strike.

  “I’m afraid he’s struck it poor,” she said. “That’s the gist of the trouble.”

  “Is he jealous?”

  “Not really,” Peg said, “although he’d like to think it. He knows I’ve given him no cause.”

  “Shall I talk to him, Margaret?”

  “He may well insult you. He’s spoiling for a muss, as they say at home.”

  “I’ve been insulted by kings.” Foley took a cigar from his pocket case and bit off the tip. He watched her while he held a candle to it. “Does he smoke, this husband of yours?”

  Peg sighed. After all the strain and exhilaration, she felt too empty, too weary to cope with the situation, and she knew that in her heart she wished Matt had not come. “He’s too young to smoke,” she said.

  When they reached the dressing room Matt was not there.

  “Like as not,” said Foley, “he’s loading up downstairs. He’ll not go back himself tomorrow, much less take you.”

  Peg shivered. He’s maudlin when he’s sober, she thought, and drunk he’s a gibbering fool. When he was all there was to me I could abide it…“Oh, God,” she said, “I wish I were as drunk as he will be when we meet again.”

  Foley shook his head. “My old mother used to say if you need to take a bottle to bed, you should sit up the night.” He took a flask from his pocket and poured her a jigger of brandy. Peg drank it down.

  “That will warm the chill,” she said. “May I have another?”

  “We’ve a long day tomorrow,” Foley said, but he gave it to her.

  “Longer for me, starting it now,” she said, but she threw back her head and smiled. “Let’s go back and keep faith with our friends. He’ll come for me when he’s ready.”

  Foley held aside the sheeting for her. “Does he beat you?”

  Peg laughed. “I wish he would.”

  Comradeship had mellowed into sentimentality amongst the players, and one lad after another must kiss the leading lady, chaste kisses mostly, and the one that wasn’t from an old trouper, his beard his own and as musty as ever one out of a trunk. Peg gave him a push that sprawled him amongst the empty champagne bottles, scattering them like ninepins. “Alley, alley!” the company cried. “Set ’em up and bowl ’em again, Kate!”

  John Redmond rushed in then, having been gone a half hour or so. “Hear this! Hear this!” he cried, waving a piece of foolscap. “Here’s tomorrow’s review in the Alto California.”

  “Where did you get it, John?”

  “From the typesetter’s hand. He’s my friend.”

  “For God’s sake let’s hear it,” Foley said.

  Redmond leaped upon the table and struck himself a pose. He came down then and took the paper to a work light. “It’s a pity, they can’t afford us more light.”

  “God’s teeth, man, stop the coquetry and spit it out.”

  Redmond unrolled the paper. “‘Last night,’” he read, “‘something wonderful happened to the American theatre. The players upon the stage at the Rialto were mortal men and women. Blood ran in their veins and not the ink of ages. John Redmond deserves all credit for his exuberant production, and his Petruchio befit the style he set for all his players. But what shall we say of his Kate? Plain Kate and bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst, but Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom. Margaret Stuart was indeed all Kates. We cannot help but opine that she may set a new and welcome fashion for leading ladies throughout the land. Realist is the word for her…’ Shall I read on?”

  “Oh,” cried Foley, “I’d rather hear it than scratch my belly. Read on!”

  Not a disparaging word was there in the entire review and when Redmond was done with the reading, no one in the company had anything to say until finally the First Old Man remarked: “He oughtn’t to have said all that. We’ve got another performance to give tomorrow.”

  “And we were right in our letter to you, Mrs. Stuart,” said the boy, Eddie, who was sitting at her feet. “That was my saying, ‘the applause of players’, I wrote that.”

  She ruffled his hair. “A beautiful saying. Now you must write me a play to go with it.”

  “I can,” the boy cried, leaping up. “I’ll set it here in San Francisco: the curse of gold!”

  “Let’s get our share of it first and curse it after,” said Redmond. “Fetch me my cloak and gloves like a good lad, Eddie.”

  Peg saw the boy’s face change in disappointment. “Pop the cork on one last bottle, Eddie,” she said. “I’ll get your cloak for you, John.”

  “I’ll get it myself,” said Redmond, with as much of a smile as he ever yielded, and brushing Peg’s cheek with the back of his hand as he passed her. “I am scored upon.”

  “Let me get it,” Peg said softly. “It will be my little way of tribute to you as well as reprimand. Stay a glass out with us, John. I’m almost fearful of the parting tonight.”

  “Good Lord, why? We’re opening, not closing. After Kate, you’ll have Ophelia…” Peg made a face. “All right, Rosalind, and what a Rosalind! No bustles afore or aft for that, good Kate!”

  Peg laughed and slipped from the edge of the table where she had been sitting. She was but a few steps on her way when a voice came thick and curdled from the dark house beyond the work light: “You don’t fetch any man’s coat for him, Mrs. Stuart, exceptin’ your husband’s.”

  Peg turned, cold and sick at heart and stomach at the sound of his voice. “Are you there, Matt?” she called out, for she could see no more of him beyond the spectral light than a round whiteness that must be his face, which looked disembodied as he lurched forward amongst the benches in the darkness.

  “Here and unaccounted, goddam these trees chopped down and lyin’.” He sprawled over the benches and then picked himself up.

&
nbsp; Tom Foley caught up the candelabra from the table. “Come up, Mr. Stuart,” he cried out too heartily. “Your wife and I were looking for you.”

  “Where were you lookin’,” Matt slurred, reaching the stage, “under Redmond’s bed?”

  “Hush, man,” Foley said, leaning his hand down to pull Matt up to the dais. Their bodies teetered giddily, the weight of one sawing against the pull of the other.

  “You’re scaldin’ me with tallow!” Matt screamed.

  Peg took the candelabra from Foley’s hand, and then with the help of another man, he pulled Matt onto the stage. The actors giggled, mostly out of embarrassment.

  Matt swayed like a willow in the wind. His eyes were bloodshot, his mouth sagging. Peg caught his hand and squeezed it fiercely. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, turning him to the table, “I should like to present my husband.”

  They murmured a greeting but averted their eyes.

  “We’re goin’ home and pack your clothes,” Matt said, trying to articulate each word. “We ain’t a-waitin’ till mornin’. I got a horse an’ wagon outside now. We’re goin’ to be in Sacramento by the dawn.”

  The women of the cast let out their shock in long “ooohs.”

  Matt turned and grinned at them foolishly. “Wanna come with us?”

  “Sit down at the table here, Mr. Stuart,” Foley said, “and let’s talk this over like gentlemen.”

  “Gold,” Matt said, looking down from his great height on the burly Foley, “that’s what makes gen’lemen. Did you strike it?”

  “As you did, my good man,” said Foley. “But I know it and I doubt if you do. Mrs. Stuart is more than gold to either of us. Get hold of yourself and appreciate her, man, before you turn into a Midas.”

  Matt cocked his head. “Into a what?”

  “Midas.”

  Matt grinned and put his hand on Foley’s shoulder. “Midas well sit down,” he said, and laughed. He made a sweeping gesture. “Midas well all sit down.” He stopped half way to the table. “What was it that thing said with all your names on it?”

  “‘The applause of players,’ Mr. Stuart,” Eddie spoke up.

  Matt nodded. “I applaud her, too.” He clapped his hands. “Before any of you ever even seen her, I applauded her.”

  Oh, God almighty, Peg thought. He will account our lives now that he can make good his boast. “Sit down, Matt, and hold your tongue. We’ll have a glass together.”

  Again he leaned heavily on Foley’s shoulder and grinned. “Ain’t she modest though? To hear her you’d never think she was on the stage before.” He looked around. “Come to think of it, I wasn’t.”

  “You’re on now,” John Redmond said with ill-concealed contempt.

  “And so are you!” Matt shouted as though it were a challenge.

  Redmond shrugged and sipped his wine.

  Matt turned again to Foley. “Did you ever see her do Gallus Mag?”

  “No,” Foley said quietly, “I didn’t.”

  But Redmond’s head shot up from where he had taken to contemplating his wine. His eyes darted to Peg’s. He had thought he remembered her on their first reading. He threw his head back and laughed soundlessly in the rush of recollection.

  “Oh, by God, you should’ve seen that,” Matt said. “Why, man, she could bring a possum out of a treetop wi’ that slung-shot of hers. It’s just too bad she ain’t gonna be around to do that for you here. Do us a bit from Mag now, honey. Show the people.”

  Peg stood where she was, her hand tight upon the candelabra.

  “Oooh,” Matt said, “she’s frothin’ up. She don’t like Mag no more. I’ll tell you somethin’—I think she’s ashamed of Mag. And I’ll tell you somethin’ else—she’s ashamed of me.” He shook his finger in Foley’s face. “Don’t tell me no, ’cause I know yes. But I ain’t ashamed of her. Oh, no. I’m goin’ to take her back to camp and show her off till I bust wi’ pride. Am I talkin’ too much?”

  A twitter of laughter came from the watchers. Matt permitted himself to be led to the table, but he reared back then and jerked his arm from Foley’s hand. “My mind’s made up,” he said. “And when a Stuart makes up his mind, a coon trap…” His mouth hung open while he groped for the words to finish the sentence.

  “Well,” Peg cried, jarring the candelabra down on the table, “let’s drink to it—to Matt Stuart, a man who makes up his mind. Slop him out a glass here, Eddie, and one for all of us who’d rather be drunk than soulful.”

  “I for one,” said the Walking Lady, gathering herself up in tipsy dignity, “would rather be dead than drunk. Good night, comrades.”

  Peg looked after her and jerked her head around to look upon her husband while he settled at the bench and played a game with himself, working his hand to the glass, finger over finger on the tablecloth. She could feel a cruel urge rise in her. Oh, the pleasure she would feel to tear her nails across his face. She smiled. “Or would you like whiskey better, Matt? Of course you would. It’s your party. Name your choice.”

  Matt nodded his approval. “Bourbon,” he said, “a man’s drink.”

  “Eddie, oblige us, please. Tell the barkeep below we’ve a Southern gentleman here who favors bourbon. Give him a pull at your flask while he’s waiting, Tom. It would be a shame to lose so mellow a mood.”

  Foley shook his head. “Margaret, you shouldn’t…”

  “Don’t tell me what I should or should not when I am not in your employ,” Peg said. “The man’s thirsty. He must have a drink.”

  Foley’s hands trembled as he tried to pour the brandy into the flask top. Peg laughed, took the flask from him, and put it into Matt’s hand. He caught it greedily and tilted it to his mouth. He near lost his balance when he threw his head back. Peg hastened to his back, and supporting his head on her breast, smiled down at him. She twisted his hair between her fingers and yanked his head back every time he was about to take the flask from his lips. He gave a great pull away from her when the bottle was empty, flung it with all his might against the wall, and shouted out his triumph.

  “Bravo!” Peg cried and swung around on the players who stood stock and gaping still. “What sort of a celebration this without a dance? Can none of you carry a tune?”

  “Shall I fetch my lute, Mrs. Stuart?”

  “Aye,” Peg sang out, “a lute or a flute so long as there’s rhythm in it! Gallus Mag, he wanted. I shall do you a Gallus Mag, and this much I shall tell you about her—she was a girl who could dance on her lover’s grave.”

  “Wait, wait!” Matt cried, half rising. With a sweep of his arm he crashed the glasses near him from the table. “Clear them off down there!” Those nearest the table scrambled to rescue the remaining glassware. Someone caught up the candelabra. Matt struck his fist on the table. “This here’s your lover’s grave. Let’s see you dance on it, Margaret!”

  Peg pranced through the broken glass in her satin slippers and leaped upon the table. She lifted her skirts to her knees. “A Kerry dance!” she cried, “or do you know one from Wicklow, for my true love was a Wicklow man. If you’re Irish, Tom Foley, then sing along with me!”

  She began the song herself, a lilting jig to which she danced while singing. One and another voice quavered into tune with hers. Faster she sang and quickened the dance while her husband tried hard to thump out the rhythm. He watched her legs move as quick as prismed light. Suddenly he stopped beating time and stared at her feet. The white cloth was spotted with blood beneath them, the fresh drops marking it with every prance of her foot upon the table.

  “Stop it!” Matt shrieked, and in the sudden awful silence, put his head upon his arm and sobbed. “What have I done?” he wailed, “oh, God almighty, what’ve I done.” He took his arm away and thumped his head again and again upon the table. A moment later his arms fell limp. He slumped down on the table and was still.

  Peg touched her toe to his face, twisted it to beneath his chin, and with her hands on her hips put her weight into her foot and toppled him from th
e bench. He sprawled to the floor and fetched each breath in noisy unconsciousness.

  “Michael,” she said then, “bring the laundry hamper from the wardrobe.” She waited without a word, without a look to her feet, or to the face of anyone present. “Put him in it,” she said, when two boys returned with the basket. With the help of the others they hoisted and twisted Matt’s great length into the hamper.

  She stepped down from the table. “Now, by your kindness, I will permit four of you gentlemen to see us home.”

  John Redmond turned the wine glass in his hand, weighed it as though contemplating its worth. He tossed it on the heap of broken glass.

  “You are called for eleven in the morning,” he said.

  PART V

  1

  THE AFTERNOON WAS BITTER cold when the school train pulled into Centre Street; it was bursting with boys, the train, having made connections with special runs from Boston, New Haven and other New England towns. They spilled out on the platform and rolled into huddles, each lad to his own school group to make its last cheer the loudest.

  “Three times three for Yale, gentlemen!”

  Vinnie turned from that cheer with his fellows, settled his bowler on his head, and looked again for Mr. Finn. He had spied him from the train’s platform and lost him again in the rush. It was Mr. Finn found him now, and determined to reach him, Vinnie thought, even at the cost of his dignity. He caught Vinnie’s hands, shaking them both, and whether it was the wind or something else that caused it, the tears welled into his eyes as he gazed up at the boy, a head and a neck taller than himself and with the mark of a razor nick on his chin. To every lad who passed them in the tow of his family and thumped Vinnie on the back with a “Merry Christmas, Dunne,” Mr. Finn turned and bowed a little. Vinnie hoisted his laundry bag over his shoulder and picked up his own portmanteau, not waiting the porter Mr. Finn was flagging.

  “I can manage,” Vinnie said. “How is Nancy, sir?”