Читать книгу Val Sinestra - Martha Morton - Страница 10
7
ОглавлениеIn the months that followed, Floyd saw little of Julie. She called several times with her mother, who was very sweet and amiable.
“I hope when you feel more like seeing people you’ll come to us often,” said Mrs. Gonzola.
Floyd looked at Julie, who smiled at him, and returned the pressure of his hand. Martin was a great deal at the Gonzolas’, but he didn’t mention that to Floyd. One Sunday afternoon Mrs. Gonzola came into the parlor, Martin was sitting very close to Julie, reading in rich passionate tones a love poem by Oscar Wilde; Julie started up and Martin left, but all that day she couldn’t meet her mother’s clairvoyant eyes.
“I don’t like him, Julie. He’s no class. He was an unmannerly boy and he’s a dangerous man. I’ve told James to say you’re out, the next time he calls. If you meet him accidentally, avoid him.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Julie. After that she saw him often with the assistance of a sympathetic French teacher, whose room was post-office and rendezvous for the lovers.
Martin gave Julie glimpses of “life.” He took her to all kinds of strange places—a chop suey restaurant, with its unpalatable dishes, soft lights, and insidious Chinamen; a dancing cafe which at that time was not supposed to be a place for young ladies—but best of all was Hippolyte.
Hippolyte’s Parlor flaunted on Fifth Avenue. It had a magnificent plate glass show window, fitted with Circassian walnut, in which was one red feather fan on a cushion of Nile green velvet, one jeweled comb, and a Pierrot costumed in black silk with a large white ruff, his face wonderful in its languid perversity. Up the side street there was a private door which opened halfway to let in ladies heavily veiled. Julie’s ambition was to see what was behind that fascinating door; today it is no longer a mystery. In the Middle Ages, Hippolyte would have been a miracle man summoned to a fair Venetian to deepen the red of her hair, the rose in her cheeks, the marvel of her eyes—selling for a purse of gold, charms to rob a rival of a coveted lover. Times have not changed, nor people; only appearances.
Martin took Julie into the shop one day and introduced her to Hippolyte, who pronounced her “ravissante”; thereupon Martin bought a costly box of perfume. Julie was afraid to take it home.
“I’ll settle that,” laughed Martin, and poured it over her, then they ran around the reservoir to get rid of the odor. Mrs. Gonzola noticed it, but said nothing.
Julie was standing at the window waiting for her mother. Her gloved hands impatiently agitating the curtains.
“Mother, the car is here. I shall be late for my music lesson.”
The voice answering from upstairs was nervous, trembling. “It’s impossible for me to go with you today; I’m not well.”
A flash illumined Julie’s face, but her voice was under perfect control. “I’m sorry.”
From the upper window, her mother watched her, music-roll in hand, stepping into the car. Mrs. Gonzola realized more and more acutely that her lovely child was developing into a beautiful woman; there was no feeling of joyful pride. Horrible, agonizing fear stopped the current of her blood.
Julie, alone in the car, drew a long breath. The pink of her lips turned red, the color slowly overflowing into her cheeks. She pulled the cord, asked the chauffeur in her soft, sensuous voice to stop at the nearest drug store; there she telephoned, then drove to the house of her professor. She was a gifted pianiste; she played with a sure, velvety touch, surmounting with ease all technical difficulties. The professor went into ecstasies about the beautiful child-woman with “Eternal Love in her fingers.”
The car turned into the Park. Martin was walking up and down by the little lake. He hated to wait. She never kept an appointment; if she didn’t come today he was through. His heart leaped when he saw her. The girl had a terrible power over him. She said smilingly:
“We’ll go across town and up Riverside Drive for an hour. Then I’ll drop you at the club.”
They sped along in the car. He pulled down the shades, drew off her gloves, tearing the buttons in his haste, crushed her two hands in his moist hot ones, spoke quickly, panting with excitement:
“I’ve thought it all out. I’m going to your mother tonight.”
“No! No!” gasped Julie. “Write to her first.”
“I have written to her, as politely as I knew how. I told her I loved you and wanted you to be my wife.”
He read the answer, his voice shaking with anger and wounded pride:
I have no words to reply to your impertinent letter. Julie will not marry until she is of age. You are not the man I consider worthy of her. You take it for granted that she is willing. I know her better. She will not consent. I warn you not to molest her with further attentions, and consider the matter closed.
She crouched in the corner, speechless.
“She will blame me. She will say I encouraged you.”
“You did, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but marriage! I’m too young yet.”
He pressed her to him with a force that left her helpless. He would show her haughty mother who was the master. With his face pressed against hers, he talked, expostulated, begged, threatened to kill himself, kissing her again and again, until she gave in. She would do anything, everything he asked of her, but he must give her twenty-four hours to win over her mother.
“If you fail?”
“Then, I will go with you.”
“You promise.”
“Yes.”
“Julie! Your mother will influence you against me!”
“No one can do that.”
“You are mine; I will not give you up.” He swore an oath, which made her shudder. With a quiver of terrible joy, she put her arms around his neck. Her lips sought his.
