Mrs. Siddall remembered that her father had acquired his choicest bargains in New York real estate at the low mark of the Nineties.
She signed the necessary papers. Naturally, she did not keep millions in cash on hand, but that would be taken care of through her bank, by loans; the presumption was that ultimately the building would liquidate its costs. She could see no risk whatever; she was lending the money to herself. Nothing could be safer. It was impossible to contemplate the stopping of the work, letting the name of the Siddall Building stand for failure.
Julius mentioned that he must hurry away to a conference on a municipal loan issue. He was saving the city. With the other leading bankers, he had in the course of years sold—and taken his percentage—on so many city bonds, credit was exhausted. He would now demand economy. The taxpayers must be roused to protest against Tammany graft. He expected to be in Washington next week to urge a moratorium on international debts, also a necessity, he said. ... To sustain credit. This reasoning seemed luminously clear to him. His soft, greyish face, with its flat clerical upper lip, was irradiated with altruism. His private life was blameless, and he had a pious veneration for the aged Wyman Helder, who had saved the country during the panic of 1907, at a handsome profit; and was the leading vestryman of St. Stephen's until locomotor ataxia forced him to retire. Wyman Helder senior had given Julius his career.
Every afternoon, before tea, Mrs. Siddall was accustomed to visit the nursery next door. To-day Arthur forestalled her, bringing his son to call. Young Benjamin, named after his great-grandfather, was two years old, and just promoted to approximately masculine garments. Arthur carried Benjy on his shoulder, and the child squirmed and laughed, holding on with both hands.
"Do be careful," Mrs. Siddall warned him.
"I'd better be," Arthur agreed. "He's got me by the ear. Come down, Colonel." Set on his feet, the little boy ran to Mrs. Siddall.
"What have you been doing to-day, Benjy?"
"I bwoke my duck."
"Your duck?"
Arthur said: "One of those celluloid objects floating in his bath."
"We'll get you another duck," Mrs. Siddall promised.
Benjy struggled with the dawn of thought. It wouldn't be the same duck. He couldn't express the idea, and shook his head. He had Gina's dark hair and Arthur's blue eyes; his dark lashes were tipped with gold. His round face and dimpled knees retained the plumpness of babyhood; and he was as good as gold. Mrs. Siddall's fat white hands, with their burden of rings, held him competently. The superficial haughtiness of expression which had been fashion in her youth and habit in her middle years had almost vanished with age; her hair was now snow white; and tiny purple veins showed through the powder on her cheeks and nose; her double chin suggested amiable indulgence.
Benjy gazed solemnly at the roses. "Flowers," he said. Then he yawned, with the comical candor of infancy, and leaned against Mrs. Siddall's whaleboned bosom. He had been playing very hard with Arthur, and it was time for his nap.
"I'll take him back," Arthur said.
"He's such a lamb," Mrs. Siddall rejoined.
On the stairs in the other house Arthur met Gina coming down. For a second he did not recognize her. She was dressed for the street, going out to tea, tall and slender and elegant in a close-fitting jacket suit with a sable collar and a small hat that hid her hair completely. She was as smart and stylized as a fashion drawing. The fashions had changed suddenly, and women with them, flowing into longer skirts, curving lines, swaying movements. . . .
Arthur had not seen Gina since yesterday. That happened occasionally of late. Increasingly often.
She stopped, with a startled air, one hand on the baluster. "Oh," she said, "what—"
Arthur said: "He's asleep." They stood a moment, with an immense distance between them, not six feet in actual space. And yet there was the child in his arms. Gina had had a bad time when Benjy was born.
"You know the Wigginses and the Averys are coming to dinner," Gina said, "and the opera afterward."
Arthur said yes. He went on up to the nursery, and gave Benjy to the anxious stout nurse. Then he went down to his library, a new library built in the new house, and there were some recently purchased books to look over, before finding place for them on the shelves. Dinner and the opera meant a long evening; Katryn Wiggins would talk through it, but that was of no consequence; he didn't want to hear music, and spend a wakeful night. Sometimes he couldn't face the hours past midnight; and Gina never refused him. He almost wished she would. When he slept afterward, the distance between them increased. . . . Then what were all the books about? So much passion and beauty shut between dustproof covers, locked away and silenced by possession. In a great rich house full of beautiful dead things. ... A bracelet of bright hair about the bone.. ..
18
MYSIE went home, a flying visit, and stopped over a day to see Michael Busch. They wrote to each other at intervals, so he expected her and met her at the train.
"Does anyone know you're here?" he asked.
"No. I'd rather not."
"That's good. Would you like to come to my apartment and powder your nose before dinner?"
"It might be an improvement," she said. "You live in town now?" He had, or used to have, a country place out toward Bremerton.
"It's more convenient," he said. He meant since the death of his wife, three years ago. "I go over Sundays; my girls are living there. The youngsters are better off in the country." Two of his daughters were married, and his sons-in-law had gone broke, or as near as made no matter, in the general collapse of business. There were two grandchildren. Michael was very fond of them, but he disliked being a grandfather. As a visitor—though he paid for the upkeep of the place—he felt less definitely fixed in that status.
He had brought his car, and drove it himself. By the time they were out of the station, the clear June twilight had begun, and the lights were coming on. As they zig-zagged up the steep streets from the waterfront, Mysie felt inexplicably homesick. She had come back to her own country, and she was homesick as she had not been while away. The soft Pacific air carried familiar reminders of salt water and tide flats, the smell of the docks, of fish, timber, and the Orient odors of corded bales of tea-matting. The hills rose from the harbor in terraces; as they climbed, Mysie tried to place herself.
"The town has changed," she said. It was fourteen years since she had gone away, six since her last visit, a brief one. Eight years since she had spent six months here; yes, it was changing them, but she hadn't expected a clean sweep. "I don't remember this apartment house— I don't seem to remember anything."
"I guess it is new." Michael parked the car, and carried in her suitcase. The doorman took it and gave it to the elevator boy. Mysie suppressed a smile; she thought, Mike is doing that on purpose. It was characteristic of him. He was cautious up to the point of decision; then he didn't care, he was obstinate and dependable. Nobody could crowd him; he would or he wouldn't, and they could go to hell. He stood by whatever he did. Only if she had declined his suggestion, he would have let it go at that without comment; it was for her to say what she would do. He unlocked the apartment door.
"This is the spare bedroom," he put down her suitcase, "I'll be ready whenever you are."
Mysie took a shower, brushed the train-dust from her hair, and changed to a dinner dress, because it would please Michael to see her "dressed up." A pink dress, for the same reason; he liked bright colors. The bedroom suggested a hotel room, with varnished mahogany and a sheet of glass on the dresser. The living-room had the same anonymous aspect: leather club chairs and an oak table with magazines laid in a row. No books; he didn't read books; and the magazines were seldom disturbed. He read newspapers.
Michael was waiting, with champagne cocktails. He clinked glasses. "Here's luck. You're famous now, aren't you? I knew you'd get ahead. But you don't look a day older." He kissed her cheek, with the slightly awkward restraint of shyness, as if uncertain how she would take it
. That was strange, considering . . .
"I daresay I don't look a day older than I am," she smiled. "But one lucky break is a long way from fame."
The apartment was high up; a tall window looked over Puget Sound, with the riding lights of ships flung like lost stars in a gulf of ether. They distracted her. . . . The first time Michael had ever kissed her, it had been like that, abrupt and tentative. At dusk, in the mill office, looking out over the water. She had stared at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. Because she had thought of him as so assured and solid and competent, knowing what he wanted and how to get it. She had not supposed he wanted her. She had thought she amused him, that he talked to her easily because he had no need to be on guard against anyone so insignificant as herself, indeed against anyone. It did not occur to her till long afterward how much he had risked, and how well he must have been aware of it. He must have told himself that he was a damn fool; that he would appear to be worse than a fool. A man of his age, forty. She was only nineteen. He had everything to lose and nothing to gain. For he expected nothing. He really had only generous intentions.
She looked at him now. He looked older, but not essentially changed; she had been right, he was substantial, dependable. Rather tall, he stood very straight, with his head up because he was far-sighted. He had put on some weight under the belt, and his dusty-colored hair was thin, receding at the top. Though he was a farmer's son, and had done heavy work in his youth, his hands were smooth and shapely; he dressed well. Clean shaven, with a long upper lip, straight nose, pale blue eyes, a poker face, his features expressed no emotion except an occasional flash of youthful and amusing exasperation, though he never lost his temper. He had a watchful patience that baffled Mysie, as her oblique and sudden gaiety, her nimble mind, baffled him. He managed things as far as they were amenable, and put up with the rest.
He had displayed that unfailing patience with her from the beginning. She remembered now almost incredulously how young she was, and how happy for a time, light-headed with happiness over having a job, money of her own, the world before her. That year was a breathing spell between childhood and maturity. . . . Having once given himself away, Michael made no reservations; he kissed her sometimes, and she allowed him for courtesy, though she didn't care much for kissing, and often turned her face away, slid out of his arm, and laughed. She used to pry into his pocket, literally; ask him staggering questions out of her ignorance . . . She remembered, that summer, she used to wear a blue serge suit and a white blouse, and her hair in a double braid wound on the back of her head; it was not till later that she decided to have it bobbed. And she remembered that funny flash of exasperation on Michael's face as he let her go, answered her, permitted her to rummage his pockets. As if she had been a squirrel sitting on his knee, which she did sometimes. He would write and tell her when he was coming, or if he was delayed; she knew a lot about his business. He had an astonishing, complete confidence in her.
And though she didn't tell him, he knew about her beaux; she was an incorrigible flirt, the sign of a cool temperament. He did not mention her beaux; except once. Saturday nights, during that summer, the young people usually went over to the next town, a bigger town, to dance at a new pavilion, a harmless excursion by twos. For a couple of months Mysie's escort was the assistant manager at the mill; what was his name? Dick Chisholm, a quiet steady young man. Michael asked her, was she engaged to Chisholm? If she was, he would promote him, give him a better job at the head office; Dick was all right. . . . Mysie said no—she did not explain, though it was the truth, that she wouldn't marry anyone in Sequitlam. Michael said no more on the subject.
Late in the summer she had two weeks' holiday; Michael asked her where she was going. She had not decided; she had been counting up how far she could go. Living at home, she gave half her pay to her mother. She couldn't even let herself think of Japan or China; they were too far, too expensive. Perhaps to Alaska. Because she knew that next year she must really go away, go East; she must and she didn't want to; she wouldn't like the East, nevertheless she knew she wouldn't be able to come back, not to stay.. .. Michael said it was a fine trip to Alaska. He had been there in the gold rush, made his first money there, not mining but building boats on Lake LeBarge. After a couple of years he came back to Seattle because that was where the money was going from Alaska. His elder brother had staked him his passage; his brother ran a gambling house, he told Mysie. She remembered how incongruous it seemed that Michael should have such a brother; but she saw now that he had a gambling streak in him too, though it came out in other ways. He said he would see about a steamship ticket for her; and then he handed her a hundred-dollar bill. Have a good time, he said.
She said: But I can't—
He said: Sure, you've earned it; you work hard; I'd have to pay a man bookkeeper more. I meant to raise your pay, but I didn't know how to fix it without the manager thinking something. She still hesitated; she didn't want anything from him except—she understood her own motives later—the wisdom of his maturity. For she then had the childish illusion that years bring compensating certitudes. ... Go on, Michael said, keep it; it's nothing. He stood there with his hands in his pockets. Look here, he said at a tangent, I've been thinking—would you like to go to college? The same as your cousin. I'll pay your way. . .. Of course he knew about Gina; in such a small town as Sequitlam, though he didn't live there and came up only once a week or less often, he couldn't help knowing local news.
Mysie said: Why? She was rather stunned by the offer. Four years of college would be expensive, a considerable sum for even a rich man to give away. He said: You've got brains. She said: I don't know; of course Gina would; she goes to church. ... A ridiculous answer; but Mysie meant that Gina wanted to belong, to be inside, secure and certified; and Mysie didn't. . . . Michael said: Well, think it over; you can make up your mind when you get back.
She did have a good time, made the most of it, aware that she might never again feel so carefree. For she must be away from Sequitlam before the year was out, before her twentieth birthday. She had a superstitious notion that one could do anything if one began before twenty; but afterward it might be too late. Time is, Time was . . .
On her return, Michael met her at the boat and took her to dinner. There wouldn't be a boat to Sequitlam till morning. She hadn't expected him to meet her; he told her his family had gone abroad. He was stopping in town, in a hotel apartment. After dinner he gave her the key, and then he came up and they talked. She said she would not go to college. She had known at first, but it seemed discourteous to refuse without consideration. She asked: Why did you offer to do that for me? He said: Because I think a lot of you. She said: Cultus potlatch? (A free gift?) He said: Sure, cultus potlatch. He had his arm around her and he kissed her hair; she could feel the quickening of his heartbeat, even and strong. The place, the hour, made him scrupulous; she was his guest.
She said: But don't you—
He said: Hell, yes, you know it. What of it? We can't have everything we want.
She said: Why not?
He held her very hard, and tipped up her chin with his hand. He said: Do you mean that? You won't be sorry, honey?
She said: No.
Do you have to go home in the morning?
No, she said again. Can I have something to drink?
Yet it made no difference, being his mistress. She wouldn't have objected to the word; it had a traditional grace. Though she was not sorry, what she had done was a mistake. Not in the ordinary sense; that had no weight with either of them. They wouldn't turn on each other with the mean excuse of conscience. But what was her motive, when there was no compulsion and no advantage? She did not understand herself till later; it was because Michael had handed over to her all his advantage, offering her his money and leaving himself disarmed. She couldn't let him believe he meant nothing to her.
Also she wanted to forget Johnny Disston by learning what it was could shake one so. And she did not realize that she h
ad required Michael to throw over his scruples, as he did without hesitation.
She was unable to define the nature of their attachment. In some respect they were alike; they saw the world from the same point of view. They were tough-minded, ruthless, matter-of-fact and romantic. He would have said he was in love with her, and believed it. He had a great regard for women; and none of the ordinary masculine resentment against his need of them. Not even against the women he had paid. He was logically willing to pay for his pleasure and their risk. But Mysie doubted if he had ever been in love with any woman. No more than she had ever been in love with any man. Not altogether—with nothing left over. He was capable of love. But neither of them had found it. They were out of luck.
After so many years of absence, with such separate lives, they were still friends. Mysie was glad to see him; she felt irrationally safe again. Michael was the one person she could count upon. The impersonal, tasteless room somehow strengthened that confidence; they had always met in the wilderness, shared nothing material; so it seemed they must remain to each other even if everything else were swept away.
Mysie drank her cocktail. Being temperate, Michael insisted on having something fit to drink.
"Well, you're a star, aren't you?" he said. "I read all about it. I'd like to see you play, but I can't afford to go East."
"I've had two or three leading parts," Mysie said, "but that's a long way from being a star." Mike wouldn't understand how little it might mean. Jake's play ran four months, and gave her sufficient prestige to get a featured part in a trivial melodrama which made an accidental hit. Then Neale Corrigan placed her cautiously in a couple of his plays which did not call for stars but good ensemble work; still, he gave her the most desirable rôles, and she got enthusiastic notices. . . . What you need is genuine comedy, Corrigan said, gruffly pessimistic. You could play it on your head; and what would that get you out in front? The stage is shot. What the public wants is movies; glycerine tears the size of an egg and a synchronized megaphone, nothing real. Mysie was astonished by the intensity of his contempt. Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him? But he had lived. She too disliked the movies irreconcilably: that empty, passionless, monstrous, two-dimensional world appalled her.
The Golden Vanity Page 17