Читать книгу Val Sinestra - Martha Morton - Страница 17
13
ОглавлениеThe young couple were called home from a brief trip, by the sudden death of Joseph Abravanel.
Julie’s grief was terrible. She stood by the plain deal coffin where he lay in his shroud, looking long at the marble face. Floyd felt her suffering, but he was powerless to console her. He wondered why Mrs. Gonzola kept her room; she surely would want to say good-bye to her father. He turned; she was there; she entered slowly, as if in fear. Julie made a quick step forward.
The voice that came from Mrs. Gonzola’s white lips was red with the blood of her race.
“I must see him.”
“You dare not.”
“Have pity on me.”
“I promised him to keep you away.”
“He will not know.”
“He will know, he must rest in peace.”
They were not mother and daughter; they were enemies.
Mrs. Gonzola turned and went downstairs in silence. She died a few days later without breaking that silence.
Joseph Abravanel had given away what little he possessed during his lifetime; to Julie he left a small Hebrew prayer book, worn with age. Mrs. Gonzola’s will was complicated. She had given generously to the Church for years. Julie was to have the house and contents and the income of what was left, the capital going to the grandchildren on condition of their fidelity to the Church; otherwise it went to support a theological seminary in Rome.
They were standing together in the parlor. The room was icy; her face, pinched, worn.
“I am going to sell the house and everything in it.”
“What! Sell your family portraits?”
“I’ve had enough of them, persecuting me with their angry faces. They despise me; I feel it. I have felt it all my life; as a child I saw them in my dreams coming out of their frames threatening me! I am done with them, done with them!” She broke into convulsive sobs. She took him by the hand, and led him around the room, stopping before each one of her childhood’s inquisitors.
“Do you want to live with them all your life?”
“No, I certainly do not—but—”
“I’ll have them packed up and sent back to the family in Europe who will hang them in their picture galleries. We have none....”
The sight of Julie in lustreless black and a long crêpe veil made Floyd shudder; it was awful. Black obscured her beauty, she spoke in low tones, went around on tip-toe. There was the silence of death in his house.
“I can’t stand this, Julie. We’re living as in a cemetery; it’s getting on my nerves. How long is it going to last?”
“One year.”
Floyd didn’t like to appear heartless, but he had already learnt to use a little diplomacy with his wife.
“Do you realize how unbecoming black is to you?”
She looked at him, startled.
“It is my duty to wear it.”
“It’s gone out of fashion. Only old people wear crêpe nowadays; a black band is quite sufficient. Why should you parade your grief?”
She didn’t answer, but the next morning she came to breakfast in a “royal” purple tea gown.
Floyd kissed her eyes, lips, hands; he had his sweetheart again.
Julie smiled at him. She liked to be worshipped.
“Come, come! I’m hungry. Don’t you want any breakfast?”
“I want nothing but you.”
The Japanese laid the morning paper on the table and discreetly withdrew. Floyd looking over the headings, sprang to his feet.
“War?”
Julie gave a startled cry.
“You won’t go, you won’t leave me alone.”
“I must do my duty.”
He went down to see Colonel Garland. The office was in a whirl of excitement. The Colonel was prancing like an old war horse. Everybody was talking at once. It had to come; the President had put it off too long; some were for, some against it, but the fact was there—the United States had thrown her hat into the ring. Floyd’s face was flushed, his eyes shining.
“I’m going to volunteer.”
The Colonel looked grave.
“Wait, let the single men go first.”
Floyd couldn’t be held back; every man he knew had volunteered. He met Tom Dillon with a little flag stuck in his buttonhole, his hat set jauntily on the side of his head.
“I’m going into camp tomorrow.”
That night there was a scene with Julie; she begged, cried, fainted. Dr. McClaren was sent for, the diagnosis was—Motherhood. Floyd did not volunteer.
All New York crowded the streets to bid Godspeed to the first regiment sailing for France. “Our Boys” with flowers in their caps, flowers stuck in their guns marched proudly. The people went mad.
Floyd, holding Julie tightly, stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue. He had a feeling of depression; for the first time in his life a wish had been thwarted. He looked down at the curly head with its sport-hat pressed close to his arm, noticed the glances of admiration. She was worth the sacrifice. Suddenly with a well-directed aim, she flung a rose at a passing soldier. He caught it, pressed it to his lips with a long glance backward.
“That was Martin,” said Julie.
They walked home in silence. Julie had a headache from the noise and excitement and went to bed early.
Floyd sat up; he tried to think of Julie and the future. He couldn’t; the cheers were still in his ears, the tramping of feet, the clashing of cymbals. He sat there, out of it. Love was cruel....
The boy was christened by Father Cabello, his last service to the Gonzola family. He had been called to Rome, where honors awaited him, for his services to the Church in America.
“What name are you going to give him?” asked the Father.
Julie, lying in her white bed, answered:
“His name will be Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”
Floyd thought it too high-sounding for modern times—an American citizen couldn’t carry it, but Julie had her way.
After Father Cabello’s departure, she went seldom to the Cathedral and gradually ceased altogether.
“I’ve lived all my life under the tyranny of two religions. My boy must be free of that; when he is old enough he will choose for himself.” But she still read her grandfather’s little Hebrew book at night when she couldn’t sleep, or when she awoke terrified from the reality of her dreams. She never spoke of it to Floyd, and he didn’t like to intrude.
