“Did he send you to tell me these things?”
“No—on the contrary. He told me he was leaving Newport in despair and that he would never again put foot on this island if he could help it.”
We had arrived at my door. I lifted my bicycle from the back seat. She walked around the car to take her place in the driver’s seat. She put out her hand to me, saying, “Until that cloud of suspicion is lifted I have no word to say. Thank you for coming with me on this drive. Thank you for listening to my story. Is one permitted to exchange a friendly kiss in the middle class?”
“If no one is looking,” I said and kissed her slowly on the cheek. She returned it, as to Ohio born.
Presently I joined Bodo. He had not fallen asleep, but leaped from his car.
“Bodo, could you possibly stay in Newport until tomorrow noon?”
“I have already received permission.”
“Could you possibly have a private conversation with Mrs. Venable tomorrow morning?”
“We always have Viennese chocolate together at ten-thirty.”
I told him the whole story, and ended up with the job which was now on his shoulders. “Can you do that?”
“I’ve got to and, by God, I’ll succeed—but, Theophilus, you idiot, we still don’t know if Persis can love me.”
“I can vouch for it.”
“How? . . . How? . . . How?”
“Don’t ask me! I know. And one thing more: You will be back in Newport on August twenty-ninth.”
“I can’t.—Why? . . . What for? How do you know?”
“Your Chief will send you. And bring an engagement ring with you. You’ve found your Frau Baronin.”
“You’re driving me crazy.”
“I’ll write you. Get a good rest. Don’t forget to say your prayers. I’m dog-tired. Good night.”
I walked back to my door. I had had an inspiration. Edweena would help me find the way.
Edweena
When in Tante Liselotte’s room my eyes fell on Edweena and the tears rolled down my cheeks, my relief sprang not only from seeing a replacement; I was also seeing an old and loved friend. I knew Edweena—I had known her in 1918 as Toinette and as Mrs. Wills. During all the weeks at Mrs. Cranston’s when she had been referred to so often—Henry’s fiancée and Mrs. Cranston’s “star boarder” in the garden apartment—she had never gone under any other name than Edweena. Yet I knew at once that my old friend must be the long-expected Edweena.
This is how I had come to know her:
In the fall of 1918 I was twenty-one years old, a soldier stationed at Fort Adams in Newport. On my advancement to the grade of corporal I was given a seven-day leave to return to my home to show my new-won stripe to my parents, to my sisters, and to the public. (My brother was overseas.) I returned to my station via New York and embarked on a boat of the Fall River Line for Newport. Old-timers still remember those boats with sighs of deep feeling. They offered all that one could imagine of luxury and romance. Most of the cabins opened on the deck by a door faced with wooden slats that could be shifted to temper the air. We had seen such accommodations in the motion-pictures. We could imagine that at any moment there would be a tap at the door, we would open it to confront a beautiful heavily veiled woman whispering imploringly, “Please let me in and hide me. I am being pursued.” Ah! We were traveling under blackout. Dim blue lights indicated the entrances to the interior of the vessel. I stayed up on deck for an hour, barely distinguishing the Statue of Liberty, the outlines of Long Island’s coast, and perhaps the lofty joy-rides of Coney Island. All the while I was aware by a prickling down my spine that our progress was being observed through the periscopes of enemy submarines—baleful crocodiles below the surface of the water—yet knowing that we were not sufficiently important game to induce them to reveal their presence. Finally I entered the hull of the boat, which consisted of a vast brightly lit dining saloon, a bar, and a series of social rooms where all was carved wood, polished brass, and velvet drapery—the Arabian Nights. I went to the bar and ordered a Bevo. I noticed that other passengers were refreshing themselves from flasks carried in their hip pockets. (I was not then a drinking man unless opportunity arose, having solemnly taken the Pledge of life-long abstinence at the age of eight under the deeply moved eyes of my father and an official of the Temperance League in Madison, Wisconsin.) I sat down to dinner, hovered over by stately waiters in white coats and gloves. I denied myself the “Terrapin Baltimore” and ordered dishes from the less expensive items on the menu. The dinner cost me half a week’s pay, but it was worth it. A soldier’s pay was weightless. The government provided all his necessities; a portion was automatically deducted and sent to his loved ones; he was under the impression that the end of the War was, like his middle age, unimaginably remote. I had been told that the boat was completely filled. It would reach Fall River at about nine when passengers for Boston and the north would disembark. Those with tickets for Newport had to go ashore at six in the morning. I was in no hurry to go to bed and having finished my blueberry pie à la mode I returned to one of the many tables near the bar and ordered another near-beer.
At the table next to mine was an elegantly dressed couple quarreling. The chair of the woman was back to back with mine. At that time—to counteract the routine of my work at the Fort—I was assiduously keeping my Journal and was already composing an account of this trip in my mind. I have no compunction about overhearing conversations in public places and this one I could not fail to overhear without moving to another table.
The man may have been drinking, but his articulation was precise. I had the impression that he was “beside himself,” he was crazy. His wife, sitting very straight, was attempting to make her remarks both soothing and admonitory. She was at the end of her tether.
“You’ve been at the back of it all for years. You’ve been trying to put them against me the whole time.”
“Edgar!”
“All this talk about my having ulcers. I haven’t got ulcers. You’ve been trying to poison me. You’re in cahoots with the whole family.”
“Edgar! The few times I’ve seen your mother and brothers during the last three years have always been in your presence.”
“You telephone them. When I leave the house you telephone them by the hour.” Et cetera. “You got me blackballed at that damned club.”
“I don’t know how a woman could do that.”
“You’re sly. You could do anything.”
“You lost your temper at Mr. Cleveland himself. The vicepresident of the club—in front of everybody.—Please go to bed and get some rest. We have to get off this boat in seven hours. I’ll sit here quietly for a while and slip into the cabin when you’re asleep.” A woman had approached them. “You can go to bed, Toinette. I shan’t need you until the ship whistles for landing.”
Apparently Toinette lingered. There was a shade of insistence in her voice. “I have some sewing to do, madam. The light is better here. I shall be sitting by the bandstand for an hour. I heard them say there might be some bad weather tonight. I shall be in Cabin 77, if you should need me.”
The man said, “That’s right, Toinette. Tell the whole boat your cabin number.”
“Tomorrow, Edgar, I shall ask you to apologize to Toinette. You forget that you were brought up to be a gentleman—and the son of Senator Montgomery!”
“Women’s voices! Women’s voices! Insinuations, innuendoes! Nagging! I can’t stand any more. You can sit here quietly until the boat sinks. I’m going to bed and I’m going to lock the door. I’ll put your dressing-case in the corridor. You can bunk with Toinette.”
“Toinette, here’s my key to the cabin. Will you kindly pack my necessaries in my dressing-case.—Edgar, please remain at this table until Toinette has collected my things. I shall not say a word.”
“Where’s that waiter? I want to pay the bill. Waiter! Waiter!—What are you doing with my purse?”
“If I’m to arrange for another cabin I shall need s
ome money. I’m your wife. I shall pay your bill here too.”
“Stop! How much are you taking?”
“I may have to bribe the purser for a cabin.”
Edgar Montgomery rose and strolled moodily the length of the saloon. I caught a glimpse of his dark tormented face. He had what we used to call a “weeping willow” mustache. He peered into the card room and the coffee rooms (scarlet damask and gilt mirrors).
Toinette returned with the dressing-case. I turned and saw her descending the great staircase. She was dressed in what I assumed to be a French maid’s uniform for street-wear in winter. It was a jacket and skirt in the severest dark-blue wool, probably to be worn under a long swinging cape. It was close-fitting and the edges were “piped” (is that right?) in black braid. If you have an eye for simplicity, it was exceedingly elegant. But what smote me was her carriage. At the age of twenty-one I had no wide experience in such matters, but I had seen “La Argentina” and her company dance in San Francisco when I was sixteen and had saved up my money in the New Haven years to see Spanish dancing—what I called to myself the “spine of steel” of Spanish women, the “walk of the tigress,” the “touch-me-not” arrogance of the dancer relative to her partner. Toinette came down those stairs not only without lowering her eyes to her feet, without lowering her eyes below the level of the horizontal regard. Zowie! Olé!! What deportment! She soon passed out of my line of vision.
“Madam,” she said in a low voice, “I’d be very happy if you used my cabin. It’s not for long and I’ve often sat up the night.”
“I wouldn’t think of it, Toinette. Will you sit here by the dressing-case while I go down to the purser’s office? The trip was a mistake. Both the doctor and I thought he was so much better. Toinette, don’t give a thought to me. You go to bed when you’re ready.”
Mr. Montgomery made as though to approach them, then changed his mind and ascended the great staircase. Apparently a number of the cabins had doors that opened on the gallery as well as on the deck. He entered his and shut the door resolutely.
Toinette whispered something into his wife’s ear.
“That’s all right, Toinette. I did as the doctor told me. I emptied the things and put some blank cartridges in the chambers.”
Mrs. Montgomery sat in silence for a moment. She then turned and looked briefly at me as I did at her. A very handsome woman. After a pause she turned again and said, “Sergeant, have you a cabin to yourself?”
“Yes, madam,” I said, rising to military attention.
“I’ll give you thirty dollars for it.”
“Madam, I’ll clear out at once and give you the key, but I’ll take no money for it. I’ll get my gear and be back in a moment.”
“Stop! I won’t accept it.”
She left the hall, descending the steps to the purser’s office. I turned and saw Toinette’s full face for the first time—a fascinating triangular face of what I took to be some Mediterranean origin, dark eyes, dark lashes, and an air of mock gravity over the distressing situation that had brought us together.
“Madam,” I said. “If I give you the key to my cabin, I think she’d accept yours. I have some friends on the boat. They’re sitting up all night and have asked me to play cards with them. I’ve often sat up all night playing cards.”
“Corporal, we must let these people work things out in their own way.”
“It’s hard to believe that Mr. Montgomery is a grown-up man.”
“Rich boys never really grow up—or seldom.”
I started. I’d been warned strongly for years against making generalizations. I was ready to weigh Toinette’s.
“Madam, what was that I heard about guns?”
“May I ask your name, sir?”
“North, Theodore North.”
“My name is Mrs. Wills. May I take you into my confidence, Mr. North?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Mr. Montgomery has always played with guns. Though I have never heard of his firing one except at cardboard targets. He thinks he has enemies. He keeps a revolver always in the drawer by his bedside table. All rich boys do. Mr. Montgomery has little nervous breakdowns from time to time. Mrs. Montgomery was advised by his doctor last week to substitute blank cartridges for real bullets. They’re almost noiseless—just cork and feathers, I think. He’s a little disturbed tonight—that’s the way we put it. If Mrs. Montgomery insists on sitting up all night, I shall sit up too.”
I said firmly, “I’ll sit up too. Excuse me, Mrs. Wills—what do you think will happen?”
“Well, I know he’s not going to sleep. Maybe in half an hour he’s going to come to his senses and be ashamed of himself for throwing his wife out of his cabin. Anyway, he’ll come out to see the effect of his big noise. Sooner or later he’ll break down—tears, apologies.—They’re dependent, men like that. He’ll consent to take a piqûre. Do you know what a piqûre is?”
“A puncture—I mean, an injection.”
“All those words have soothing names around here. We call it a little sleeping-aid.”
“Who gives it to him?”
“Mrs. Montgomery, mostly.”
“It must be an exciting life for you, madam.”
“Not any more. I’ve given Mr. Montgomery notice that I’m leaving in two weeks. While we were in New York I arranged for some new work.”
“I’m going to sit here where I can see him come out of that door on the balcony. If he’s as what you call disturbed as that, we may see some action. I wish you’d sit where you could see it too and where I could catch your eye.”
“I will. You’re a planner, aren’t you, Corporal?”
“I never thought of it that way, ma’am. Perhaps I am. Now I am when I see you mixed up in a thing like this. Even dummy bullets can cause a bit of trouble.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off her and our eyes were constantly meeting with little sparks of recognition. I sent up a trial kite. “Mr. Wills must be glad that you’re resigning from an unpleasant situation like this.”
“Mr. Wills? That’s another piece of business I did in New York this last week. I put my husband on a ship for England. He was homesick for London. He didn’t like America and took to drinking. The mistakes we make don’t really hurt us, Corporal, when we understand every inch of the ground.”
I was losing my distrust of generalizations.
Mrs. Montgomery reappeared. It was apparent that her inquiries had been fruitless. I again offered her my key. “There are all-night card games at Fort Adams every Saturday night. I’ve often joined them.”
She looked at me directly. “Would you like to play cards?”
“Very much. There are some friends of mine in the next room. If Mrs. Wills would play with us we’d only need one of them.”
“I don’t play cards, Corporal North,” said Toinette.
“There are two soldiers there that play well and would appreciate playing with a lady.”
“Corporal, my name is Mrs. Montgomery. My husband has had many things to worry him lately. When I find that he’s moody I often leave him alone to rest.”
“I’ll get the cards and the men, Mrs. Montgomery. We’d better play bridge for low stakes. When men return from leave they generally have very little money in their pockets.”
What was in my mind was that they might take her over the barrel.
“You’re very kind, Corporal.”
The men I selected were eager to play with a lady. I dug into my uniform and pulled out two ten-dollar bills. “Low stakes, fellas—just to pass the time. Lady’s husband’s a little off his head but not dangerous.—Mrs. Montgomery, this is Sergeant Major Norman Sykes. He was wounded overseas and has been sent back to build up cadres over here. This is Corporal Wilkins. He’s a librarian in Terre Haute, Indiana.”
With no apparent effort on my part I seated myself in direct view of the Montgomery cabin. I placed Mrs. Montgomery at my left. By turning her head Mrs. Montgomery could see her cabin door; as far as I was awar
e she did not glance at it once. She was charming; so was the sergeant. Wilkins ran off to find a cleaner pack of cards.
“From what state do you come, Sergeant Major Sykes?”
“I’m a Tennessee wildcat, ma’am. I had only a short lick of schooling, but I was reading the Bible at six. I’m in the Army for life. I got a bit of steel in my shoulder, but the Army’s found work for me to do. I’ve got three little wildcats of my own. Young children take a lot of feeding, as you may know, ma’am. . . . I had the good fortune to marry the brightest, prettiest schoolteacher in Tennessee.”
“I think the good fortune was equally divided, Sergeant.”
“That was very pleasant-spoken, ma’am. We have a good number of Montgomerys in Tennessee and I’ve noticed they’re all pleasant-spoken.”
“That is not always true of the Montgomerys of Newport, I’m sorry to say.”
“Well,” said the sergeant soothingly, “civil manners come hard to some folks.”
“How true!”
Wilkins returned with fresh cards and we were soon engrossed in tense play. From time to time I exchanged glances with Toinette. She was engaged—or perhaps pretended to be—in mending or altering a skirt.
Neither of us missed the moment at which Mr. Montgomery stepped out of his cabin onto the gallery. He had changed into a burgundy-colored velveteen smoking jacket. He gazed down for a few moments on the congenial foursome. Nothing irritates a bully like seeing others having a good time without him. There’s a generalization for you. I could swear that Mrs. Montgomery was aware of his presence also. She raised her voice and said, “Three no trumps! Sergeant, we must pull ourselves together.”
“Ma’am,” he said, “I’m a slow warmer-upper. We’ll take their shirts yet. Pardon the expression.”
Mr. Montgomery slowly passed along the balcony and as slowly descended the great staircase. He crossed to the bar and ordered a set-up, reached into one pocket, then the other, and brought out a flask. He poured from its contents into his glass which he carried to a table. He sat down, facing us directly, and gazed at us somberly.
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