Читать книгу Val Sinestra - Martha Morton - Страница 13

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Floyd went home early that afternoon, stopping before the little gate. He had taken great pains with his garden. The lawn was velvety smooth; beds of flowers were banked up against the porch; geraniums bloomed in boxes at the windows. The polished brass knocker, the soft white curtain, gave the little house an atmosphere of purity, cleanliness. Passers stopped to admire it; they felt that “nice” people lived there.

Floyd shook off a sick feeling; anger nauseated him. The knocker gave out a musical call. The door was opened by a bright little Japanese boy—the old servants had gradually left during the lonely year of mourning. There was nothing changed in the house—the wood fire lit, the candles on the table set for two; he saw his father at the head of it. After dinner the boy brought his slippers and velvet house jacket. He stretched himself in a big chair and lit his pipe. He loved his pipe—that was the Knickerbocker strain in him; he smoked it with reverence as the old Dutchmen did—in the days when pipes were longer and tobacco better. He loved to sit before the wood fire, and listen to its hissing, crackling, singing; he thought of his mother’s ancestors, those sturdy Pioneers in their cabins, piling on the logs, bolting their iron shutters against the howling wolves outside, who devoured the bodies and cracked the bones of men. The Puritans are gone, but the wolves are still with us; they eat the soul and sow wolf seed.

Then he thought how his father had planned his life for him, just as he had laid out his garden. It had not occurred to him that his son’s life must be different from his own. His father’s time was far away. Today things change with a flash—there is no more “slow development”—a fire!—a storm, lightning, ruins! He was a fool to be so sure of Julie; she had been very sympathetic in his year of mourning. He took it for love—Martin, that vulgarian, with his family history! He never had the slightest suspicion of what was going on between them. He’d been a blind fool.

He jumped to his feet; the clock struck ten. Twenty-four hours to prepare her mother. Why hadn’t she said “No” at once and put an end to it? She couldn’t want to marry him; it was unthinkable, but he never knew quite what she did think. When he said, “A penny for your thoughts,” she grew very serious.

“My thoughts are only for myself.”

He became impatient. Why make the thing so complicated? It was simple enough; they both wanted her and they’d have to fight for her as they did as boys. They never knew which of them she liked.

The telephone rang. He took up the receiver. It was Mrs. Gonzola’s voice.

“Is it you, Floyd?”

“Yes.”

“Could you come over for a few moments? It’s late, but—”

“I’ll come at once.”

He stood before the mirror in the hall. It reflected a young man, clean-shaven, straight brows, eyes deep blue, almost black, the mouth set with suppressed pain; that was all the image gave out—nothing of the unsounded depths. The narcotic of ease and inherited aloofness had kept the lion of character sleeping.

Passing the Dillon house, Floyd noticed vaguely a sign “For Sale.” Tom Dillon had inherited a large fortune which his father made in whiskey; he had boasted he would drink up the well-stocked cellar before he got rid of the house. It was illuminated tonight; he heard music and loud laughter; Tom was on the job.

In the parlor of the Gonzola mansion the butler pressed a button which lit up the unaccountable glass prisms of the electrified fixture; it was a familiar room. As a boy, its grandeur had awed him; when he grew older, he thought it old-fashioned, but he didn’t want to see it changed. He knew little of the other part of the house, excepting the dining-room which was in old leather, heavy, dark. He had always spoken with superiority of the “charming Spanish atmosphere” of the room. Tonight it struck him differently. “What an ignorant fool he was.” A man who mentally kicks himself for being all kinds of a fool is often awakening to wisdom.

The floor was parquet, smooth and polished. There were Oriental rugs and deep armchairs, upholstered in Turkish, and a broad divan with wonderful silk rugs thrown over it. Fur animals lay about with enormous heads and glassy eyes. The window hangings were of costly lace. He had often looked at that bronze figure in a corner; tonight it spoke to him. It was the Moses of Michael Angelo—a noble head with a rippling, flowing beard. The walls were covered with family portraits in gilt frames, turning old gold with age. He had said with authority “they are Van Dykes.” Now he noticed signed names unknown to him, probably young foreign artists. He stood before a portrait of Pedro Gonzola, Julie’s grandfather, painted in Amsterdam, after a ball costume. A very handsome young cavalier in black velvet with white lace falling over his long, tapering fingers—he thought of Martin’s coarse hands; no, the room was not Spanish.

Mrs. Gonzola came in; she, too, took on a new significance; a woman of fifty, small, sinuous, with pale eyelids, forehead, lips; the process of Time had almost washed out the human face which had been, even at its best, but a soft water-color.

Tonight Floyd seemed to see within that white Image. Past struggles, like smothered flames, flashed up again momentarily. Her English was perfect—so academic it sounded foreign; born in New York, taught by professors, she spoke like one. She had tried to bring Julie up that way, but changed conditions were too strong for her.

“Floyd, I am in a terrible dilemma. Martin has asked Julie to marry him.”

“Yes, I know.”

She tried to draw away her hands, but Floyd held them fast.

“Your decision means everything to me.” Floyd put his arm around her; he had known her all his life. She clung to him; there were tears in her voice, but her eyes were dry.

“Julie told you of our ancestry?”

“Yes.”

“Does it make any difference?”

“Why should it?”

An evasive answer. Why didn’t he make it simple, and say “No”?

“Some people are prejudiced, but you have no family ties, and are not religious. I don’t want Julie to marry Martin, he’s vulgar; they are peasants, common cattle drivers; his grandfather was a waiter—I can’t think of it, it’s too horrible!”

Floyd tried to be fair.

“But if Julie likes him better—”

“She does not; I’m sure of it. She is very impressionable. Martin has a kind of brute force; you know him. He’ll talk her into it. It will be a terrible misfortune for her; it will ruin her life! I must make it impossible; I must!”

Floyd was speechless with excitement. She had her arms around him, clinging to him.

“Julie is a strange girl, at the mercy of inherited instincts—she will be safe with you.”

Why did she say that? What was wrong with Julie? Floyd began to take Julie’s part against her mother.

“Mrs. Gonzola, be calm, I beg of you. You know I have wanted Julie all my life; you know I want her now. If she loves Martin better, what—what—can I do?”

“No, no, she will tell you herself,” Mrs. Gonzola glided out of the room. Floyd wiped his forehead. What did it all mean? Why was she so afraid of Martin? What was he doing there, anyhow? Martin had been open with him, now he was conspiring with her mother. No, he would do nothing underhand. He would give Martin a chance to get his answer as agreed. Julie must be free to choose.

She stood in the doorway. He wanted to tell her what was in his mind, but she didn’t give him time. She came straight to him, put her arms around his neck; her soft body intoxicated him. His heart’s desire realized—Julie his wife; he couldn’t let her go, he kissed her again and again. She laughed and said in her soft, sensuous voice:

“Oh, oh, don’t eat me.”

“It’s forever, Julie, forever?”

He stammered out the words. He was terribly excited, poor lad. She grew very serious.

“Yes—it is forever.” Then she cried and he tried to comfort her.

“I’ve had a great deal of excitement today. Go now.”

She let him kiss her again. He went unsteadily like a soberly inclined man who had rushed violently into an orgy of liquor. It was dawn when he slipped quietly out of his house and dropped a letter to Martin into the post-box, he had written everything, just how it happened.