Читать книгу Thirty - Howard Vincent O'Brien - Страница 7

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It was after ten o'clock on the evening of the same day. Judith was thankful when a change at one of the tables gave her an opportunity to steal away. It was the same old routine, the same interminable bridge, the same familiar group, even including Faxon and Della Baker who, by a coincidence that had called forth little veiled ironies, had returned by the same late afternoon train. Judith wondered at herself. The life she led, the people she called her friends, had never seemed quite so shallow before. She stole upstairs and listened for a moment at the door of her patient's room. All was quite soundless. Returning to the floor below, she stepped out into the grateful coolness of the evening, seeking that part of the piazza at the opposite end of the house from the parlours. Pausing outside the smoking-room, she heard voices and the tinkle of ice. She looked through the glass door; there were two men in the room, Della Baker's husband and Faxon. The latter was stirring his high-ball thoughtfully. His words arrested her as she was on the point of turning back.

"If Roger keeps on at his present gait he'll make a neat little hole even in the Wynrod pile."

Baker lighted a fresh cigar. "Yes?" His tone was noncommittal.

"Got any for himself, d'ye think—or does Judith hold the bag?" Such imprudent garrulity was not characteristic of Faxon, but more whisky than was good for him had dulled discretion and loosened his tongue.

"It's hard to say." Baker leaned back and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. He was an extraordinarily taciturn man, even for a lawyer.

"The old man had a lot of confidence in her." Faxon gave the impression of soliloquy. "Shouldn't wonder if she kept the kid on an allowance. He's strapped pretty tight sometimes. Queer girl, Judith."

"Think so?"

"Yes. Sometimes I don't just know how to take her."

"So?"

"Charming, fine character and all that—but difficult. Don't you think so?"

"Um—well...."

"Roger's different."

"Is he?"

"Oh, my, yes. I don't mean when he's carrying a package—I want to dodge then—but when he's sober, he's a nice kid. Awfully young and simple, of course. Still...."

"Alarums without—and enter the king!" came a thick voice from the doorway, a voice that arrested Judith a second time and held her spellbound. She was already tingling with mortification. How dared her friends calmly analyse her and Roger in their own house, speculate on their private money matters, condescendingly, almost sneeringly foot up their account of good and bad? Then, even in the dark, she felt her cheeks grow hot. Was she herself much better than they, playing the eavesdropper on her own guests? Somehow, oddly, the thought flashed upon her that the quiet man upstairs would not have done so, that his code of ethics was a cleaner one than hers and that of her friends. But when she heard her brother's voice, with that telltale thickening in it, sheer dread of what he might do banished all thought of social niceties. Roger was not often like this, but when he was it meant trouble.

"Hello, Roger." Faxon's manner underwent a subtle change. "Thought you were playin' bridge with the crowd."

"Bridge? Me? Not on your life! I've cut that out. I'm sick of givin' the whole party, I am. I'm sick of bein' a Christmas-tree for blind babies. Put your han's in my pockets, boys. Ev'body's doin' it! No, sir, I've quit f' good. Where's the Scotch?"

"Really, Roger," protested Baker somewhat anxiously, "don't you think you'd better...."

"Jus' one toast," insisted Roger obstinately, "jus' one." He drew himself unsteadily erect. "I wanta drink—I wanta drink—to the mos' beautiful, mos' 'ttractive, mos' heartless...." As he raised the glass with a flourish, it slipped from his fingers and crashed on the table, its golden contents trickling over Baker's knees.

There was momentary silence; then a single short laugh. It sobered Wynrod like a dash of cold water. "You think I'm funny?" he demanded.

Faxon reddened. "Oh, come now, Roger, why so peevish? You've got things to be thankful about. I hear that Vera is leaving you, without even the threat of a breach of promise suit—"

The blood surged up into Roger's cheeks and his features sharpened. When he finally spoke it was very slowly.

"I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut on matters that don't concern you," he said icily.

Faxon's eyes gleamed angrily, and his lips parted; but he did not speak. He passed his hand across his mouth and laughed nervously.

Baker put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Let's see how the cards are going, Roger...."

But Wynrod shook him off. "Would you mind beating it, John—just a moment. I want to talk to Faxon—there's a good fellow—"

Baker surveyed the pair—and hesitated. Then, with a cold and meaning glance at Faxon, he shrugged his shoulders and went out.

When the curtains had closed, Wynrod turned to Faxon. He drew in his breath and his teeth clicked sharply.

"I may run the risk of breach of promise suits," he said, after a long pause, "but I stay away from married women."

"Well, that's noble of you to be sure, but—what of it?"

"You don't."

Faxon's features tightened. "I'm afraid I don't understand...."

"That's a lie," said Wynrod in an ugly, deliberate way.

"Now see here...." Faxon tried to bluster, but it was patently forced.

"Either you or the Bakers have got to get out of this house." The words were said quietly enough, but the determination behind them was plain. Faxon realised that, and tried equivocation.

"Why?"

"Because I won't have this sort of thing going on in my house."

"Your house?" There was just the faintest suggestion of an emphasis upon the pronoun.

"My house," repeated Roger coldly. "I saw you and Della last night. And I know you met in town to-day. If she wants to make that kind of an ass of herself outside, that's her business. But she can't do it here. John Baker's my friend."

For an instant Faxon's jaw was set with curled lips, and his eyes blazed. Then the whole expression changed, and he shrugged his shoulders and laughed—though not very easily.

"Why, Roger old boy, you're all wrong. You're quite mistaken about Della Baker. She and I are good friends—nothing more. She's an unhappy little woman, that's all. She—oh well, she's taken my friendship for something more. She...."

"Let's not discuss her."

"As you like. But you've got to get things straight. Just because I was decent to her when her husband wasn't, and she fancied me in love with her, doesn't make me the sort of chap you seem to think me, does it?"

Roger was silent. Faxon assumed that the silence meant an acceptance of his explanation, and his apparent success made him careless. His voice softened and his manner became almost feline. He put his hand on the other's shoulder.

"You've got it all dead wrong, my boy. Della's spoiled the party for me. She's stuck to me like a barnacle. I didn't come out here for her. I wanted to see Judith. Why...."

Roger seemed suddenly to grow a head taller. His eyes flamed like banked fires, and his nostrils dilated. His fists clenched fiercely. "Cut that—cut it, I tell you," he ground thickly through his set teeth. "Don't you ever speak of my sister like that. By God, I won't stand it, you hear." His voice was low but clear and vibrant with suppressed passion.

Faxon recoiled, and his suavity left him. "Your sister is of age, I believe," he said with a steely evenness. "She needs no protector."

"You keep away, I tell you. You keep away." Roger's breath came shortly, and his fists clenched and unclenched themselves spasmodically.

"If I'm not good enough to look at your sister, how about you—and Molly Wolcott? I can't see that little Vera's any better than Della Baker."

"Cut it, Faxon. You're going too far!"

"Is that so?" sneered the older man harshly. "Well, what if I go farther. I won't take much nonsense from you, my cock."

"You'll get out of this house and stay out...." Roger's eyes were ablaze and his features worked convulsively. The other, much larger of frame, glared down at him with a gaze as hot as his own. The atmosphere was tense.

Then, almost simultaneously the curtains parted and the two sections of the piazza window swung inward. Baker who had left the two men very reluctantly, and had returned as soon as he decently could, was present at the climax. He jumped forward as he saw the two men facing each other over the narrow table, and comprehended the situation. But he was too late. He caught an ugly word from Wynrod. Then, with a savage oath, Faxon's arm shot out.

There was the dull crunch of flesh against flesh, and the younger man staggered back from the impact; then blind with rage, he sprang forward again; a crash of shattered glass followed, as the mis-aimed whisky bottle splintered against the sideboard. Then, simultaneously the three men became aware of Judith standing white and statuesque in the window, her eyes ablaze with scorn and repulsion.

Of what was said she had no clear memory afterwards. Roger, belligerent still, attempted a hot defence, but she silenced him with a cutting word. Faxon for the first time on record, found his suavity forsake him. He had been caught by his hostess in a disorderly broil, and his dapperness was marred with spattered liquor. His rhetoric quite broke down and he was conscious of making the most awkward exit of his career.

It was fully an hour later, when the house was quiet for the night, that Judith found Roger nursing a slight but smarting cut on his cheek, where Faxon's seal ring had grazed it.

"Roger," she said, "that's enough 'first aid,' isn't it? I want to talk with you."

"Oh, cut it out, Judith. Go to bed. I've had all a fellow can stand for one evening, without being lectured by you!"

"It can't wait, Roger. I have some things that I must say to you now, to-night, and you have got to listen. I couldn't sleep if I didn't. I have waited too long already. If I hadn't, this wretched, vulgar thing wouldn't have happened.... And with one of your own guests, too."

He straightened at that and lost his sheepish look. "One of my guests? Not by a million! I wouldn't have that damned bounder in my kennels. Why, hang it all, Judith, I can't see what you have the chap around for at all. He...."

"You know perfectly well why I have him. He's here so that Della Baker can have a good time—poor girl."

"Poor girl! Rats! Just because her husband doesn't play tag with her all day, she's 'poor girl.' Instead of behaving like a halfway decent sort, she's making several different kinds of a fool of herself over Joe Faxon. 'Poor girl?'—don't make me laugh!"

"Oh, I heard what you said to Mr. Faxon. But it doesn't follow, Roger, just because you have a nasty mind that everybody is as horrid as you choose to think. Maybe there are some sides of a man's life that I'm not supposed to know about. But just escaping a breach of promise suit,—oh, Roger, shame on you!"

For a moment the young man lost some of his assurance. "You aren't fair," he protested aggrievedly. "You're bound to put me in the wrong every time. Admitted that I have made all sorts of a fool of myself,—a fellow has to learn somehow, hasn't he? But you'll believe the worst of me any time, and you won't believe anything against your precious friends. You're biased, that's what you are, biased."

Judith sighed and took a cigarette from the table and lighted it. She smoked thoughtfully for a moment.

"Roger, I'm sure I don't know what to do with you. It's just one scrape after another. It won't be long before this one will be out. But I don't mean to be unfair. If as you say, you have been all kinds of a fool, it isn't any more your fault than it is mine. I had no right to make it possible for you to be all kinds of a fool. And as a matter of fact, you are not a bit ashamed of yourself, Roger. On the contrary, you're altogether too satisfied with yourself."

Her brother smiled uneasily. "I don't know that I'm really in need of condolence," he rejoined with an attempt at sarcasm.

"That's just the trouble," she said earnestly. "You've been feeling altogether too well—with altogether too little reason." She tossed her cigarette in the fireplace, and then turned and faced him with lips compressed. "I overheard some people discussing you the other night, Roger. One called you 'no account,' the other, 'a bad egg,' and both agreed that the cause was 'too much money.'"

His eyes flashed. "Who were they?" he demanded belligerently.

"That makes no difference."

"Why doesn't it?"

"Because what they said is true."

Roger was silent at that, but Judith went on relentlessly.

"You are no account, Roger. By the standards of men who do things in the world, you're good for nothing. You're a good dancer. You can drive a motor car. You know enough about horses to play polo. And when you put your mind to it, you play a good game of cards. Beyond that, what can you do—what are you?"

He eyed her narrowly, and a faint flush rose in his cheeks.

"What do you want me to do—give a catalogue of virtues?" he inquired sarcastically. "What's all this leading to, anyway. Granted that I'm all kinds of a waster, what's the answer?"

Judith was thoughtfully silent for a little while after his question, and when she spoke it was to answer it with another question.

"Have you ever done a single stroke of useful work in your life?"

"Probably not." His tone was a little flippant.

"Why not?"

"Never had to." The flippancy was quite obvious.

"No, you never had to—never had to do anything." There was another long silence, broken only by the nervous drumming of Roger's finger-tips on the edge of his chair. When Judith spoke again, her tone was tender, but with a vibrant note of determination which communicated itself fully even to her brother's apathetic faculties.

"Well, from now on, you're going to play the man. You're going to take care of yourself. You're going to have to do things."

"What do you mean?" All Roger's flippancy had vanished, and in its place was an almost comic anxiety.

"Just what I said, Roger lad. I shall support you no longer."

"You mean ... you're going to stop my allowance?" He was aghast at the possibility, and he made no effort to conceal his feelings. "Surely you can't be thinking of anything so—so—outrageous?" he demanded.

"But I am!" She tossed her head with a suggestion of defiance, and smiled. "You've done as you pleased for all your twenty-four years. Well, you can go on doing as you please—only you'll do it on your own money."

"But this money—my allowance—it isn't yours, you know," he expostulated, almost tearfully. "It's merely an idiotic will that gives you the disposal of it. What right have you got to get on your high horse and tell me what I must and mustn't do? Answer me that."

"No right, Roger," she said sadly. "Half of what we have is yours of course. But it's not yours till you're thirty—you know that. I couldn't give it to you now even if I wanted to. I'm not even obliged to give you an allowance. The two thousand, of course, you'll continue to get. I can't control that. But beyond...."

"Two thousand! What good will that do me? Do you think I can live on that?"

"Some people do," she murmured faintly. Judith was not without a certain quiet irony when she chose to employ it.

"Don't be silly, Judith. You know mighty well I can't get along on that. Why, good heavens, I can't possibly do it!" His voice rose shrilly as the enormity of the thought struck him with all its force. But Judith refused to be troubled.

"Perhaps you'll know more about it after you've tried," she said gently.

Roger jumped to his feet and paced rapidly to and fro for a moment. Then he faced his sister, and his eyes blazed like those of an angry cat.

"Do you really mean that you're going to play this rotten trick on me?" he demanded hotly. "Are you going to take advantage of a perfectly insane will and cheat me out of what's honestly mine? Or are you kidding me? If you are, I've had about enough of it."

"I mean every word," she returned, with not a little asperity. "And I'm not cheating you. You've made a mess of your life, left to yourself. Now I'm going to help you. I'm tired of suffering for your sins!" Suddenly the quality of her voice changed completely and her eyes glistened suggestively. "Oh, Roger lad, can't you understand? Can't you see that I do so want you to make something of yourself? You're the only thing I have in the world. Can't you see how it hurts me to have people feel a contempt for you? I'm the only mother you've ever had. I know I haven't done a millionth part of what I should have done for you. I've failed—miserably. I know that. All your weaknesses are due to me. You aren't to blame. This is my last chance. You're slipping, Roger—slipping down. This is my last chance to catch you—before—before ... it's too late. Judge Wolcott agrees: I talked it over with him. Oh, I'm sorry, lad. You haven't an idea how sorry! It breaks my heart to be cruel to you this way—but I've got to be, Roger. I've got to be—can't you understand? Please say you do." She put her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his. But he shook her off roughly.

"That's all very fine talk," he snapped savagely, "but it doesn't mean anything. Who the devil is old Wolcott to worry about my morals...?"

"As Molly's father he...."

"Molly can take care of herself. But that isn't the point. What I want to know is where Wolcott gets the right to monkey with my affairs. And as for you—if you're going to cheat me out of what's mine—for the love of heaven, do it, but don't make it worse with all this high and mighty talk. It makes me tired."

"Please, Roger...." The tears in her eyes were plain now.

"Maybe I am all the pleasant things you say I am. Maybe I haven't got sense enough to take care of my own money. But what are you? I never noticed any wings on your shoulders."

"You don't understand. I...."

"Understand? Of course I don't understand. That's why I'm asking the question. If I'm what you say I am—what are you? Where'd you get your preaching card?"

"What difference does it make what I am?"

"It makes a lot of difference. If you're so hot on reforming me, why don't you take a crack at yourself? I don't see that you're so almighty angelic. What have you ever done in the world? You can play the piano after a fashion and sing, and talk a little French, and play cards and smoke cigarettes and drink cocktails and ... well, what else can you do? You spend twice as much money as I do, and I'll be hanged if I can see that you spend it to much better advantage. If I'm a waster and no account and a bad egg, you're one too. The only difference is that you wear skirts and I don't. Well—why don't you answer me?"

He towered over her, white with his rising rage.

"I say, why don't you answer me?" he repeated hotly.

"You don't need to be rude," she answered, her voice trembling.

"I'm not rude. I'm simply putting the same question to you that you put to me. You held the mirror up to me. You can't squeal if I do the same by you. You wanted to know what I had ahead, what I thought about things, where I stood, and all that. Well, what do you think about things? Where do you stand? What are you? Turn about's fair, isn't it?"

Judith sought shelter in dignity. She raised her head coldly. "I think there is nothing more to be said. I think you had better go to bed."

"No," he sneered bitterly; "there isn't anything more. You're dealing the cards. But it's a darned rotten deal, just the same. If you've got a clear conscience you've got a devil of a lot more than I'd have if I was in your shoes."

With which bit of self-depreciation Roger stalked dignifiedly, if a trifle unsteadily, out of the room.

Judith remained as he left her, with her chin in her hand, staring into the empty fireplace. Once or twice she brought her handkerchief to her eyes. Her brother's angry words had stung her far more cruelly than she was willing to admit. His counter arraignment of her had struck home. What was she, what did she think about things? In her zeal for him, had she not overlooked herself?

She cast her eyes around the room, reeking with the sweet sickliness of dead cigarettes. She thought of the high stakes that had passed at her tables, she saw again the wan, tired, hard faces of the players, their feverish, greedy fingers; and she heard, as in an echo, their blithe cruelties, their empty blandishments. And these people, she reflected bitterly, were her friends—the only ones she had.

Roger had put the question to her squarely. What was she? The words struck her like a blow in the face. And what did she think—about anything? And the weight of the question was none the lighter for being asked for the second time in the same day. Roger the immature boy over whom she had allowed herself to stand in judgment, and Brent Good, the pitiful vagabond, had both weighed her in the balance and found her wanting.

She shuddered at the arid uselessness of what she called her mind. The grotesque procession of her daily thoughts passed before her in review. She tried to close her eyes and shut the ghastly picture out, but could not.

Riches, health, intelligence of a sort—these things were hers. What had she done with them? The answer hurt, almost physically. Emptiness, idleness, futility ... was there anything else in herself, her friends, her whole life? Had she justified existence?

Suddenly she realised that it was cold. She shivered, and turned out the light.