XV
The Aquitania had crept up the river that morning with exasperating caution. It was the day before Christmas. The more impatient compared tedious experiences in customs; hoped goodwill toward men might have percolated through to the baggage inspectors; wondered if they could get Pullman space on the two-forty-five in case they missed the one-twenty.
Her furs muffled high about her throat, Helen Hudson ventured to the frosty rail of B-deck as they passed the Battery, and found the stinging breeze a bit strenuous. She had avoided three consecutive winters, and the fast trip from Nice to New York had not been free of discomfort.
A spluttery scrawl from Joyce accounted for her sudden decision to return. She had read the letter on a stone bench by the sea wall, a stone’s throw from the Casino pier, one week ago this morning … It had been that kind of a journey.
“All packed and waiting for the taxi,” Joyce had begun. “Going back to Detroit. Why Detroit, I don’t know, unless because it seems to offer something like anchorage. I’ll try to find some employment there—anything to occupy my mind … The past month has been a nightmare! Quite unendurable! Last night, Tom struck me a savage blow on the breast with his fist … deeply penitent afterwards … wailed his remorse like a little child … But I told him I’d had enough … I’m through! … He left, early this morning, ashamed and glum. He thinks I’ll be here when he comes home tonight, though I made it plain enough I was leaving … I wonder, darling, would it be asking too much of you to come back and be with me for a few weeks. I do need some good counsel, and I’m bitterly lonely … It’s a shame to drag you back to Detroit in midwinter—but could you? I’ve nobody but you! I need you desperately! … Cable me at the Statler … I’ll be wild with joy if you say you’ll come!”
It had taken only an hour to decide. Creasing the letter with puzzled fingers, she had risen and walked mechanically along the Promenade des Anglais for fully half a mile; had slowly retraced her steps, past the Negresso and the Ruhl, so deep in her problem she barely noticed the strollers recruited from a dozen nations. By the time she had reached the little park fronting the Jettee, Helen was ready to concede that Joyce had won her case.
She had called the roll of all the alternatives to a return trip. Why not cable Joyce to come over? But no—Joyce had set her heart on finding some employment. She would find none along the Riviera. Joyce wanted to begin life again. She couldn’t do it lounging in Nice. Joyce was bitterly lonely. Well—Nice wouldn’t help that very much … After all—she did owe Joyce some attention. She must go! … It was almost as busy an afternoon as the one on which the had impulsively migrated from Bellagio.
Slowly the big ship warped into her slip; sleety, salty hawsers were wound upon huge rumbling spools somewhere deep in her vitals; the covered gangways were hauled up from the dock and opened to the swarm of restless home-comers. Almost everybody had located wide expectant eyes in the steam-breathing crowd that huddled at the openings of the wharf-shed.
Helen felt very much alone. She exchanged tentative goodbyes with the few friends she had made on board; doubtless she would be bumping into them again in the Customs.
Already a nervous little caucus had convened under the big H, halfway down the draughty warehouse where a pile of luggage was rapidly accumulating. Some sat on their trunks with the resigned despair of the shipwrecked on a desert island; some—less experienced—squatted before their gaping bags contemplating last minute amendments to their declaration slips.
Young Mrs. Hudson had done a minimum of collecting in Europe, but it was amazing how many things one unwittingly came into possession of in the course of a mere three years of foreign travel. As she neared her letter, she met a pair of officials headed also in that direction and told them that she was hopeful of spending at least part of Christmas Day with relatives in Detroit. She led them to her belongings and indicated which pieces they were to put the stickers on. She could have brought in the Crown jewels, that morning.
To her delight, the three o’clock train was not crowded; but why should it be? It was Christmas Eve! Normal people were at home. The thought depressed her. For a little while, as the train roared through the tunnel, she missed a home as she had never before.
There was a pleasurable excitement, however, in this return to Detroit. She and Joyce had been very close. Whatever of constraint had come upon their comradeship, in that last trying winter when she had attempted so unsuccessfully to keep the girl from utterly ruining herself, Joyce’s urgent need of her drove all that into oblivion.
And there were many other friends in Detroit she would be happy to see again … The Byrnes … Should she go out to see Mrs. Ashford? Why not—indeed? Mrs. Ashford had been good to her … It might be thought strange if Doctor Hudson’s widow returned to Detroit and failed to call at Brightwood … Perhaps it would serve the purpose if she invited Mrs. Ashford down town for luncheon and a matinée … It wouldn’t be necessary to go out to the hospital … Doctor Pyle would be glad to see her, of course; but she would call on the Pyles at their home … Besides—it would be awkward meeting people one scarcely knew any more, and being expected to remember their names … And as for that glassblower, who meddled in people’s affairs and sent spies about to report on their movements, one would be almost sure to encounter him! … Why should he want to blow glass, anyway? … Imagine!—a brain surgeon spending his time in such silly business!
The sky was the colour of wood-ashes. Big snowflakes flattened against the pane, crumbled, edged toward the lower corner of the sash. No matter where they struck and spattered, or how slowly they made their way, sooner or later, quickly or slowly, they eventually arrived in the corner and packed themselves down hard against the others … Her thoughts were like that. Let them strike where they would—they all contrived to bring up at one spot. She was impatient about it, tugged herself free of her reveries, returned to the magazine story and reread with utter disinterest the page that had failed to register … Would it pay to take the coupé out of the storage garage? She had not driven on icy streets for so long. Had she lost her nerve? Skidding was dangerous … She watched a snowflake creep across the pane … Her eyes grew reminiscent, tender. She bit her lip. Her cheeks were flushed … Then, vexed with herself, she shifted her position and took up the magazine with resolution.
Had Joyce been effectually cured of her drinking? Would she drift into her old habits, once she had renewed connections with her Detroit set? … And be brought in, at all hours, maudlin and stupid? … An unusually big snowflake went scudding across the glass, clawing for a hold, but unable to stand out against the rule for all snowflakes on this pane … For a brief instant, she was in his arms, and she felt his lips pressed hard against her own … She threw down the magazine and rang the bell for a table. A game of solitaire might divert her.
It was pleasant to be back in an American dining-car … And, all things considered, it would be better to invite Mrs. Ashford to take an afternoon off and come down town … Our diners were so much nicer than the European ones where the passengers were organized into platoons and given so many minutes to devour each course … What a pity she had felt she had to sell her Brightwood stock. Would it make any difference in her relations with Mrs. Ashford?
It was bitterly cold that night as the long train clanked and creaked and screamed along the east bank of the Hudson, and, crossing the bridge at Albany, thrust its black muzzle into the face of a blinding blizzard; but the scurrying landscape, blurry with snow, did not seem so bleakly inhospitable as she had feared. In her berth, she raised on one elbow, drew aside the blind, and watched the sleet-trimmed trees and fences skimming by, half glad she was returning. She snuggled down with her furs against her cheek, and drifted off into an extended debate with somebody, whether she wasn’t under a sort of obligation to call at Brightwood, if only for a moment.
Joyce was at the gates, dancing gleefully, arms outstretched, as she sighted her beloved emerging from the concourse tunnel, pursued by two porters staggering under bags plastered with foreign labels. There were some murmured tendernesses, and a moment later they were careening around the circle, tire-chains rattling merrily. Bubbling with excitement, Joyce tried to tell half a dozen stories at once.
“First thing I did, darling, when I arrived—week ago—I went out to see Nancy Ashford. Isn’t she the dearest thing? But you hardly knew her. Well—she’s regular! … I went out to Brightwood and told Nancy all about it; how I couldn’t stick it another minute and had had to leave him; and could I possibly find anything to do, just to keep from going crazy … And, what do you think? They had just lost a file-clerk, and would I like to do that for a week or two, to find out how I would react to the discipline of office hours; and, meanwhile, we could all be thinking and inquiring for something permanent … But, I don’t mind if nothing turns up for a while. Really—it isn’t dull work, at all; and I quite like it!”
“Oh, you’ve begun it already?”
“Umm-humm! … That same afternoon! … Just took off my hat and went to it. Honestly—it’s a lark. Of course, I knew several of the people—Doctor Pyle and Doctor Carter, and the redheaded Watson boy, who’s grown a moustache and glasses since I saw him last; and fully a dozen of the older nurses … And—my dear—you should see the Merrick person! … Don’t frown that way! … I know you never liked him.”
“You mean I never knew him.”
“Of course! That was the whole trouble! You never met him but once, on that awful night! Ugh! … that night!”
Helen patted her hand.
“Forget it! We’ll never mention it again!”
Joyce brightened and resumed her monologue.
“Well, as I was saying, all you ever knew about him was that he had a sentimental notion he must study surgery and try to take dear dad’s place … And you thought it a piece of impudence, didn’t you? … Listen! He’s going to come near doing it! Do you know what Bobby Merrick’s up and done? He’s invented a thing—”
The taxi scraped against the kerb, and the doorman was reaching for the baggage.
“Look! Isn’t this foxy?” prattled Joyce, as they entered the lobby. “All done over! … Let’s go straight through to luncheon. I’m starving! … There’s a place—by the window … Umm! Duck! That’s Christmassy!”
“What were you saying about your work at the hospital, when I interrupted you?” asked Helen, as the waiter moved away, scribbling on his card.
“What was I saying? … Oh, yes—about Bobby! He’s made an electrical thing that’s bringing head surgeons here from all over. I don’t know exactly what it is—some sort of a charged knife … awfully complicated … They’re doing operations with it at Brightwood that have never been done anywhere before … Something that prevents haemorrhages, or something. Nancy Ashford told me about it; but she couldn’t explain it very well. I saw it—a big, tall, wooden case full of the most intricate machinery you ever saw …”
“Glass things?”
“Umm-humm! … How did you know?”
“Well—they always do have a lot of—of things made of glass whenever they use electricity, don’t they?”
“Naturally … Have some of that wonderful celery, darling … Only celery in the world, you know … And handsome? My word! Honestly—I wouldn’t have known him! And he always was good-looking! … But the change in him is simply marvellous! I’m half afraid of him … Oh—very professional! Crisp! No nonsense—no—sir-ee! And the nurses are all wild and crazy about him—and he doesn’t know they’re existing … He’s doing some of their most important cases out there, now … Calls me ‘Mrs. Masterson!’ Isn’t that idiotic! Nancy says it’s because I’m employed there … Funny—don’t you think?”
Helen thought it was funny; thought the whole speech funny.
“Really—” Joyce leaned forward and dropped her voice. “If I had the teeniest right to, I’d lose my heart—utterly! You know I always was a little bit soft about him!”
“I hope you’ll not be indiscreet, Joyce.”
“Oh, I’ll take pains not to let him know I think he’s nice,” she reassured. “But—I don’t want you feeling unkindly toward him. You really can’t avoid meeting him, you know.”
“Why not?”
“Well—you’ll be out at Brightwood, more or less, now I’m there …”
“I don’t see how your work at Brightwood would require my presence.”
“But—you’re going out, aren’t you? … Honestly, darling, you’ll just have to be pleasant toward him—for my sake!”
“For your sake?”
Helen experienced a momentary wave of disappointment … In her long absence from Joyce, she had idealized her somewhat; but—she was the same Joyce, whom no blunders could chasten; the same unchanged Joyce who couldn’t forget anything, or learn anything; hopping gaily out of the frying-pan into the fire.
“Yes,” repeated Joyce dramatically, “for my sake!”
“Then,” said Helen slowly, “I’m sorry I came back.”
They ate their duck; but it wasn’t very good.
That night they saw The Hypotenuse. It was a rollicking comedy employing a small cast and simple materials. A young widow and her contemporary stepdaughter furtively concealed from each other, throughout the first act, that the late Judge Haskins’ junior partner was of larger interest than was demanded by his professional service as their attorney and business counsellor. Act Two developed some delicious situations, adroitly handled. The audience was delighted.
When the curtain had finally settled, after several trips in response to warm applause which brought them all back together, and then reconsidered them in relays, finishing with mamma and Polly, hand in hand, Joyce turned animatedly to offer comment and surprised an abstracted look on Helen’s face. She, apparently, had not been quite prepared for the sudden onrush of lights.
“You’re tired, aren’t you?” inquired Joyce solicitously.
“It always takes a day or two, I think, to recover from a long journey.”
“Awfully jolly show, don’t you think? Fancy such a mess! You and I—for instance! We’d be honest with each other, at least! I suppose we’d just cut the deck to see which one was to get him.”
“Stuffy in here, isn’t it?” said Helen. “Let’s go out and prowl in the foyer. Want to?”
Joyce’s incapacity for understanding the operations of her own mind was spectacularly displayed, early next morning, as she dressed to go to Brightwood, babbling about herself as a “woiking goil.”
Breakfast had been served in their rooms. Helen, exquisite in a dainty lounging robe, was lingering over her coffee and the morning papers.
“I think it’s simply marvellous,” enthused Joyce, into the mirror, “that I’ve been able to adjust so quickly to office routine, don’t you? … After all these years of indulging myself, sleeping late, pottering, lazing about! I’m happier than I ever thought I could be again. I know now I’ll never be contented, any more, without a regular job.”
“Glad you like it,” said Helen, deep in the theatre advertisements. “What do people say about this new musical comedy, Jasmine?”
“Very tuneful, I hear … Like this hat?”
“Cute! … Suppose Mrs. Ashford might like to come down town, tomorrow, and have dinner with us and see Jasmine?”
“Oh, I’m sure she would love it! I’ll ask her. And, darling—she and Bobby Merrick are such pals. Wouldn’t it be nice to ask him, too?”
“Not a bit nice! I don’t know him! I don’t want to know him!” Helen’s tone was frankly impatient.
“Well, you could get acquainted with him. I know him! Couldn’t you consider my wishes a little?” Joyce savagely flicked probable dust from her coat.
“Hand me my pocketbook … there … on the mantel. Thanks!”
Helen opened it and unfolded a letter.
“Oh—it’s the one I wrote you! … Well, what about it?”
“Read it … You will see that you asked me to travel five thousand miles to give you some good advice. Now that I’ve gone to the bother of humouring you, I hope you’ll not resent it if I say that your present state of mind in regard to Doctor Merrick is absurd! … If you want to be silly about him, don’t annoy me with it! I won’t have him thrust down my throat!”
“Well—what’s come over you? I hadn’t heard that residence in France and Italy made people so squeamish! … And it seems to me that a person with your admiration for people who do really valorous things—at a lot of cost to themselves—would take a little human interest in Bobby Merrick, slaving himself almost to death, when, if he wanted to, he might be lounging on a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean! … I heard one of the nurses say he had come into a million dollars’ worth of Axion Motors when he was twenty-five, and is due for another million when he is thirty! I tell you he deserves some credit! … Goodbye … Don’t be peeved! … See you about five-thirty.”
Helen rose, after the door had slammed, and stood looking down upon the street … Axion Motors! … A million dollars’ worth of Axion Motors! … Axion!