by Gwen Bristow
“Seven years?” Isabel asked.
“No,” said Kester. “The world.”
“You haven’t changed,” said Isabel.
Kester accepted his drink from the waiter. Instead of answering her last observation he asked, “How did you get out?”
“Isabel has been telling us,” Clara contributed eagerly. “It was awful at first, then there was one man who thought she was wonderful.”
“Why Isabel,” asked Kester, “how did you happen to be in a place where there was only one man?”
“Act your age,” said Isabel.
The orchestra began to play again. After promising several other men to dance with them later, Isabel went off with Neal Sheramy. Eleanor saw no more of her until they were summoned to supper, when she found herself again in a group around Isabel, who was holding her plate on her knees and still answering questions, though by now she was abrupt, as though bored with being a cynosure. Eleanor did not blame her, for their queries about the war sounded silly.
“Isabel, why did the Germans march through Belgium?”
“To get to France.”
“But why did they have to go through Belgium?”
“Because it’s in the way. Look at the map.”
“But the French didn’t try to go through.”
“The Germans got there first.”
“Why did they burn Louvain?”
“I don’t know.”
“But don’t you think it was dreadful?”
“Yes, it must have been.”
“Have you ever seen the Kaiser?”
“Yes, I’ve seen him.”
“Where?”
“In parades.”
“Has he really got a crippled arm?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Is it true Belgium had a secret alliance with England?”
“I don’t know.”
“But the papers say Count Bernstorff claims—”
“Maybe they did, then.”
“What do you think about the atrocity stories?”
“Flapdoodle.”
“You mean the Germans wouldn’t do such things?”
“Those I know wouldn’t.”
“But the papers say—why do you think not?”
“I don’t know much about armies,” Isabel returned shortly, “but I should imagine that invaders with a campaign on their hands would be too busy to get drunk and drag naked women through the street.”
“Mhm—maybe, but it all sounds so dreadful. You’re pro-German, aren’t you?”
Eleanor interrupted. “Why shouldn’t she be pro-German? This is a neutral country.”
Isabel gave her an astonished look. “Thank you, Mrs. Larne,” she said after a moment. “This country is so neutral,” she added tersely, “that I’ve noticed the restaurants are having their bills of fare printed in English throughout, because sympathizers won’t order dishes with names in French or German or Russian.”
They laughed, and with an evident attempt to relieve Isabel of more catechizing Kester asked, “Did you see that England has put another tax on tea?”
But Cousin Sylvia was there, and she persisted, “Isabel, do you think England was right in going into the war?”
Isabel drew a short breath. “Listen, all of you,” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen a German newspaper since last summer, I didn’t read a paper once a week while I lived there, I don’t know anything about the war. I’m glad I’m off their blasted continent and I’m going to build a monument to Christopher Columbus in my front yard.”
She was evidently on the verge of exasperation. Though an hour ago she had seemed to be enjoying her homage, she was behaving now like a cross child, and Eleanor wondered if it were merely boredom or if something had happened meanwhile to irritate her. With his usual tact Kester was intervening. “Let’s sing songs. Violet, if you’ve finished supper, will you play?”
Violet complied with alacrity, obviously glad to give Isabel a chance for relief. Isabel followed them to the piano, and in a moment the room was full of merry noise: Violet was pounding out tunes, the waiters were bringing dishes and drinks, a group who did not want to sing were arguing about John Bunny’s talents as a comedian, another group discussed the cotton trouble and a third disputed whether a mint julep was better with or without a rum float, while over it all those around the piano were blissfully warbling,
The neutral in the front of me was cheering for the Kaiser,
The neutral in the back of me was arguing for France… .
Leaning against the piano, Eleanor smiled at Kester, wondering how anybody ever gave a party without him. She heard Sylvia’s voice under the music.
“… but I feel it my duty to warn you, Isabel, that after Belgium most people in this country feel very indignant about the Germans—”
“Oh shut up, Sylvia, for heaven’s sake.”
“Isabel!” cried Sylvia. She turned her back, insulted, and walked off, and Isabel looked after her with a sigh of relief. Eleanor caught her eye and smiled.
“Don’t mind her,” she advised Isabel sympathetically. “She’s a goose.”
Isabel smiled, though a little grimly. “For that I came back to God’s country!” She made a gesture as though to push away the lot of them. “How long have you and Kester been married?” she asked.
“Two years last May.”
“Have you any children?”
“Yes, a little girl. She had her first birthday last week.”
“How nice,” said Isabel.
“Come to see us,” said Eleanor. “We won’t ask you about the Belgian atrocities, I promise.”
“Why, thank you,” said Isabel.
Violet pulled her down to the piano stool. “Isabel, play for us. You always did it much better than I could.”
“Haven’t they got any war-songs in Europe that we haven’t heard over here?” Clara inquired.
Isabel gave her a bloodthirsty look, but Kester interposed with a sort of quiet authority, as though he were host and responsible for keeping the party in good spirits. “Play a war-song, Isabel.”
Isabel shrugged slightly, but after an instant’s hesitation she smiled obediently as though she had recovered her temper and sang a British recruiting song that began,
Where will you look, sonny, where will you look
When your children yet to be
Clamor to learn of the part you took
In the war that kept men free?
She went from that into dance tunes, told them about having seen the Castles dance in Paris, and between talking and playing the piano she kept them amused until they returned to the ballroom. Eleanor did not see her again, but on the way home she told Kester she thought she might like Isabel. “She was having an annoying time of it tonight,” she said.
“She certainly was,” said Kester. “I was glad you came out with what you did about its being all right for her to be pro-German. It was a sensible remark, whether she is or not.”
“I suppose she is. After all, her husband was a German.”
She heard Kester give a chuckle. “Where your treasure is, my dear girl, there will your heart be also.”
“Was her husband’s fortune so tremendous?”
“Colossal,” said Kester dryly.
“Sylvia was being more of a pest than usual,” Eleanor remarked.
“For all Sylvia’s spotless ancestry,” Kester returned with amusement, “she’s a shining example of what I’d call poor white trash.”
Eleanor laughed. “You know, I’m never quite sure what that phrase means.”
“Why, I’d say—” he paused a moment to consider—“people who have no fineness, no delicacy, no knowledge that some things are Caesar’s and some things are God’s.”
Eleanor watched the shadowy
trees move past, thinking of Sylvia’s officious nonsense and Isabel’s plight and then of her own. A war in which they had no concern was doing a lot of unpleasant things to a lot of people who were not being directly touched by it. Dancing so a few patriots could buy a few bales seemed such a feeble way of countering the havoc.
She went to sleep thinking of cotton, and woke up thinking of it, and as usual she resolved with her coffee that she would go through one more day without talking about it. She was glad Kester did not seem to have any problem on his mind but that of making Cornelia say “Father.” He had set his heart on her saying it for her birthday, and with that a week behind and Cornelia still inarticulate he had redoubled his efforts, but though Eleanor tried to co-operate Cornelia got the impression that all this attention was a new device for her enjoyment, and laughed and kicked and tapped their cheeks with her porridge-spoon in high glee.
“Father,” Kester repeated.
“Guggle,” said Cornelia.
“Father!” said Eleanor.
“Blub,” said Cornelia happily.
“Do you suppose she’s not very bright?” Kester asked.
Eleanor looked at her watch. “I don’t know, but she’s out of castile soap and a lot of other nursery things, and I’ve got to go to town to get them. You teach her.”
She went out, in good spirits in spite of the melancholy weather. A baby was such fun. Kester wanted another, though Eleanor had insisted she would not have any more children until they could be provided with assurance of a roof to sleep under. Before she got to town her mind was again on the eternal torment of cotton. By the time she reached the drug store it was raining. Clara and Violet were at the soda fountain having a drink and complaining about the weather.
“You can’t even say it’s good for the crop,” said Violet. “The crop is in.”
“I’m so tired hearing about cotton!” Clara mourned. “Neal is so bothered.”
—but at least Silverwood isn’t mortgaged to its death, Eleanor thought as she greeted them.
“—and I just decided I wasn’t going to worry about it,” Clara announced with a triumphant lift of her chin, as if by so deciding she had reopened the market.
Eleanor declined their invitation to have a soda. There were times when Clara’s pretty ineffectiveness was too much to be borne. But as she drove back Eleanor was almost envying her. It must be very convenient to be able just to decide not to worry and so make somebody else do it.
She put up the car and ran through the rain to the back door, shutting it so hastily that it caught and snagged her skirt. Eleanor gave an irritated exclamation and hurried upstairs. Her room was chilly. She must order a fire downstairs this evening, she thought as she examined the skirt. The snag was a bad one, and a darn here would be obvious. “I’m beginning to look like an object of charity,” she told herself. “Oh Lord, clothes, Ardeith, even the drug store clerk looked at me as though he knew our account was months overdue, cotton—the war—damn everything!”
The telephone rang.
She was in no mood to talk to anybody. If the servants were about their business one of them would answer downstairs. The phone rang again. She looked at the snag in her skirt and paid no attention. It rang again. Eleanor got up unwillingly and sat on the bedstep. You had to answer the phone. Silly, it wasn’t a matter of life and death once in a thousand rings, but there it was, and she had never seen anybody with sufficient detachment to ignore it. She picked up the receiver, and as she did so she heard Kester answering the phone downstairs.
“Mr. Larne?” said a woman’s voice over the wire.
“Yes,” said Kester.
“Kester, this is Isabel.”
“Yes,” he said again, “I thought so.”
Eleanor wondered what she could want with him. She made a movement to hang up the receiver, but Isabel’s next words arrested her.
“Don’t say anything obvious from that end. But is your wife— what’s her name?”
“Eleanor.”
“Is Eleanor around?”
“No, she’s gone to town.”
“Good. Kester, I want to talk to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Kester, please. I mean I want to see you. Won’t you come over?”
There was an instant’s pause. Kester said, “Frankly, I’d rather not.”
Eleanor listened. She sat on the bedstep, the receiver pressed to her ear. Her heart had started to pound.
“Oh Kester,” Isabel exclaimed, “don’t behave like a provincial puritan!”
He laughed. “I’ve been called a good many names in my lifetime, but that one’s really new. But honestly, honeybug, I don’t see the point of it.”
“That’s the first time anybody has called me honeybug since I left Louisiana. I believe I like it. But seriously, I do want to see you. Shall I explain?”
“You can if you like. There’s nobody here.”
He sounded casual, uninterested. Perhaps, Eleanor thought, deliberately so.
“Really, Kester,” Isabel said with a little rebuking laugh, “I didn’t come home for your sake. But since I’m here, tell me, does Eleanor know anything about—well, about us?”
“No,” said Kester.
“Thanks. I thought not, from her attitude last night. I’m glad, for wives sometimes exaggerate such things.”
“Aren’t you exaggerating it too?”
“I had all but forgotten it,” said Isabel. “Don’t you know me?”
“I know you by heart,” said Kester.
“And you’re laughing at me.”
“On the contrary, I’m sorry for you. Though I admit it’s funny to think of your bursting into tears before the Statue of Liberty.”
“Who told you I did?”
“Nobody, but I know your instinct for self-dramatization. Now you’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Feeling looked at.”
“Oh, am I!” she exclaimed fervently. “You know, Kester, you had drifted into the back of my mind, and had become, frankly, quite unimportant. It didn’t occur to me to ask whether or not you were going to be at that party last night. I’d heard you were married—the girls have been running in, ostensibly to welcome me home and actually to see how I look among the ruins—and they’ve told me what’s been going on. But then, all of a sudden when I saw you, I was self-conscious as a schoolgirl.”
Kester laughed a little. “So I observed.”
“You weren’t.”
“Seven years is a long time,” said Kester.
“You’re never awkward anyway. Well, after I got home I began to think of something I hadn’t realized before. I’m going to be here all this winter, maybe till the war’s over, because practically everything I possess is tied up in Germany and at least in Dalroy I have the old house. If you and I were perfectly wise I suppose we’d avoid each other entirely. But we can’t. We know all the same people and will get invited to all the same places, and we’ll see each other unless one of us becomes a hermit. And I should like to talk to you just once, quietly and privately, before I have to see you again in a room full of people.”
“Do you think it’s necessary? As I said before, I’d rather not.”
“You’d rather not face facts, Kester. I know you too. But please try to face this one. There was a time when I was an absolute idiot about you—”
“Were you?”
“Kester, are you actually as capable as that sounds of shutting a door on your own memory?”
Kester’s answer was low and clear, as though he had put his lips close to the mouthpiece and was speaking so that nobody in the hall could have overheard him. “Isabel, you were never in love with anybody but the girl in the looking-glass. And don’t try to tell me anything different.”
“You can be very cruel, can’t you?”
“Yes. That’s why I liked you. However, that isn’t quite the truth. But never mind. Let’s get back to the present. Suppose, for instance—”
“Yes?”
“Well, suppose Eleanor—I rather like her. What sort of woman is she?”
“She’s a grand person. You wouldn’t understand her.”
“Who is she?”
“She lived in New Orleans. Her name was Upjohn.”
“Funny, I never heard of anybody in New Orleans named Upjohn.”
“In a city that size there must be some people even you never heard of. Isabel, what do you want of me?”
“I want you to tell me what I should do in the event of some likely complication such as Eleanor’s inviting me to dinner. Last night she asked me to come to Ardeith, and she may do it again. Should I accept, or should I invent a polite excuse? And if I keep inventing polite excuses, won’t she wonder why and start asking questions? After all, Eleanor must realize that you and I have known each other ever since we were born, and wouldn’t it be perfectly natural for her to make friends with me as she has with Violet and Clara?”
“Now that you mention it, I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of it at all.”
“Kester, you have the most delicious quality of not thinking. It will keep you young forever. But some kind soul—not to hint at Sylvia—is certain to mention that you and I were frequent dancing partners the year before I was married, and we’ll both be happier this winter if Eleanor leaves it at that and doesn’t realize there was anything more between us than a kiss. And don’t you really believe it would be sensible for us to talk it over like a pair of civilized adults?”
“I reckon it would,” said Kester. “Only remember,” he added clearly, “we’re both civilized and adult.”
“Then you will come over?”
“Necessarily now?”
“Yes, Kester. You see, that isn’t all I want to ask you about. I need some advice. I’m in a lot of trouble. Maybe you don’t know what it means to have one’s life cut in two. I fled like a fugitive from justice—”
“Like a fugitive from what?”
“Don’t be cruel to me now!” she pled helplessly. “I really can’t stand it, Kester. I’m so lost and tired. I’ve been dumped into a strange country—nobody but you would understand that.”