Chapter II: Mirror Maze

_“Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far.
God must judge the couple! leave them as they are--
--Whichever one’s guiltless, to his glory,
And whichever one the guilt’s with, to my story.”_

ROBERT BROWNING--_“Men and Women”_

1

Em did not find herself able to achieve a single canvas that pleased her. Day after day slipping away, winter skies, bare trees brushing them, cloud-dust flying. I feel like a housekeeper. Intellectually she still believed in herself, but Howard was shaking her confidence in her work.

“You’d better take my work-room at the back,” Howard had offered. More than once, trying to paint, she heard voices in the front rooms. I wonder why he doesn’t call me. “I must get on with my plates, Em.” Whole days away from her. “I’m working over at Algeria’s studio.”

Once Em walked by Algeria’s place. Howard--a key in his hand--on the steps with Celia, Carmen and Mitra. Em almost slunk along the opposite sidewalk. Mitra saw me. I wonder--She unconsciously avoided that street afterwards.

Dinner at Esther’s again. Green candles still, and orange glow. People, strange to Em, bowing to Howard. After the meal, as she preceded him from the room, he lingered to speak to several at one of the tables. One girl pretty. Friendly voices, pleasant laughter. He did not call Em back. Why doesn’t he introduce me?

Em’s ponderings were not obvious. She was too well established as a painter. She had fed too long on Les’s pride in her as a woman. Once a little warmth in her heart. Howard wants to be with _me_--But his fear of touching--his absences. She was not subtle in rationalizing her instinct. She became remote, avenging wall. Howard kept her in as much precariousness as she had kept Les. No fire to warm, even to hurt: not even pain to grasp at. Significant that Em, of all people in the world, said nothing.

Again Howard yawned at dinner. Frankness, even in boredom, never repelled her like uncertainty.

“Why can’t we take some of your friends to dinner next time?” she suggested. Em looked frail as she removed her gloves and threw back the fur collar of her cloak.

“Can’t afford it. We can have Celia and Mitra in tomorrow night, though, if you like.”

“All right,” listlessly. I’m producing nothing. (Her little fund realized on occasional former pictures was gone.) I wish I could--Can’t live on honorable mention by ultra-modern nuts or praise from esoteric radicals. Having no money irked Em. You buy self-respect. Stuff! I mustn’t be petty.

Mitra and Celia came. A yellow turban was rolled this time. Celia Burns-Jonesy in gray against the gray walls. Cigarettes and Howard’s Jumping artyart talk, what jewjaw! Celia crept closer to him on the couch. Mitra rose from the other side of Howard and stood near Em. His bronze eyes were fixed on one of the Japanese prints.

“That was a wild party you gave us Saturday night, Howard.” Celia’s cool languid voice reached well. “I don’t remember all of what Tod Smith did to me. It must have cost you--” I suppose he nudged her, thought Em, glancing furtively at Mitra’s face.

“I’m trying to work these days. My last things--” Howard’s voice was too loud. Mitra whispered intensely to Em under the cover of it.

“Celia very ’fraid of me, won’t gabble about you, Jewelstar, tiger love tiger, don’t talk--” His beautiful swarthy hand touched her hair as he pointed to the Japanese print.

And Em did not talk. Howard and Celia were murmuring, she fingering his coat-sleeve. The clock ticked stolidly. Mitra, a half-smile on his purple lips, drew a chair before Em, seated himself, and joined her silence.

Howard and Celia pause uneasily, and she drawls:

“You two aren’t very boisterous!”

Mitra rises, unwinds his turban, takes up his hat and coat without a word. Em rises also. Celia pouts.

“You surely aren’t going so soon?”

He nods.

“Well, you can just go on then. I’m not coming till I get good and ready.”

Em walked into the hall with Mitra, and from there to her room. She did not return.

2

Rain. Gray threads of rain tangling the clouds to the earth. Streets and buildings enameled with a thin drab film. Shut in together. Howard was peevish, irritation of the tricked. Em’s restraint was ominous.

“Em, why in the devil do you pull off stunts like last night?”

Em’s eyes half-closed. I have vanity without pride, she thought, with an inner sob.

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”

“Last night is a good reason for not introducing you to any more of them.”

“Why don’t you tell them we’re living together?” Quibbling, why doesn’t he fight? Suffering and anger.

“They both know it.”

“How many more know it?” Babyish lying by implication.

Howard hesitated almost imperceptibly.

“I suppose a lot of people.”

“How many have _you_ told?” Em clenched her teeth. Concealing it! Wants to keep from making the affair irrevocable. I loathe him!

Howard blustered.

“Em, you make me sick! What in the world’s the use--”

“Whom are you ashamed of, yourself or me?” she demanded hotly.

He winced.

“Who said I was ashamed of either of us?”

“You say it with every breath--sneaking and hiding like a pickpocket!”

He lighted a cigarette nervously.

“Will you listen--”

“Don’t worry any more. I’ll never go where I’m likely to meet any of your friends again.” Her tone was like a knife.

Howard was not a master of cuttlefish psychology. He knew he was safer in attack than in defense.

“What about Drane?” he demanded suddenly. “Do you suppose he is yearning for everybody in New York to know you left him for me?”

Em realized that it was a trick, but she was grateful to hear Les’s name on his lips. She even ignored the conscious crudeness of the words. She felt that Howard had despised her for her own frankness about Les. Any directness was priceless, and the half-truth served now. The vision of Les’s taciturn vanity supplied the rest.

“No, Howard,” she answered more quietly.

He studied her before continuing.

“Don’t you think a person like him would be hurt by a thing like that?”

“Yes.” Her face cleared.

“Then what are you ragging me for?” Injured voice. “It’s just possible I was considering what you would want, if you ever thought about it, as well as myself.”

Em distrusted kindness in Howard, but his irritated tone reassured her. She never resisted confession.

“Howard, I’m sorry I acted the way I did.” She went to him.

Triumph always made him amorous. He kissed her roughly. Her lips hurt. She felt she was living. Em did not always love friction, but she always feared evasions.

3

“I believe in being frank about expenses,” Howard said frequently. “Money’s the last convention to go. When you want anything, say so.”

Em’s vanity had chafed under the daily pointing up of his independence. The impression of sincerity in his continued remarks had at first disarmed her, but notwithstanding her intellectualizations she had become unwillingly sensitive. With Les--their food and common possessions had seemed unobtrusive and kindly.

She and Howard were in a cozy old neighborhood restaurant, not extensively patronized, but faithfully clung to by the knowing. Em was in good spirits. Her eyes were calmer. A canvas had balked all morning and then suddenly started well: she had worked up to dinnertime. She was in a mood to enjoy the cheerful little tables, the low buzz of talk, the friendly clatter of plates and cutlery that came to them as they went in. It had been raining outside: and the window beside them was silver with mist and darkness.

“What are you taking, Howard?” she asked gayly as they seated themselves.

“Mutton.”

“I want guinea-hen and mushrooms. They cook it beautifully here. Don’t you like it?”

“Yes,” said Howard.

“Then why don’t you have it, too?” Em’s smile tonight lighted her face that had grown somewhat thinner.

“Too expensive,” he answered shortly.

That’s because I haven’t been working, thought Em in a surge of wrath. No money! She remembered her home as a girl. Conventional men! They’re all the same. The proprietress came to their table. She was stout and motherly with mournful affectionate eyes. Her husband cooked and she acted as waitress.

“What is you would like for your dinner?” she asked solicitously. “Papa has made very nice the guinea-fowl tonight.”

“Roast mutton,” replied Howard, not looking up.

Em studied the card.

“I’ll have some toast and a glass of milk.”

“What! So little yet!” The woman smiled at her sadly and demurely.

“I thought you wanted guinea-hen.” Howard’s voice was irritated.

“Toast and milk,” Em repeated, smiling determinedly at the proprietress.

“The luxury of martyrdom added to the virtue of economy,” he sneered as soon as they were alone again.

Em tried to think. Why can’t I be detached--No use, I don’t want--It must come out, I suppose it’s because we’re all wrong about everything.

“I can’t see you pay too much for your privileges as a lover, Howard.”

“Oh, I expected that!” he retorted viciously.

Her heart bounded at the prospect of contest. Howard’s indifference chilled her, his cruelty never. Her courage rose to life. It _is_ life. Anything but negation. Pain is life if intense, anything, only not stasis. I do pay too much! thought Howard with deep vexation. Why these domestic topics! Money was a nuisance. She knew he was poor just at this time. He gave her what he had. Why demand a heroic gesture to accompany it? Her face was startling in its unyielding, his was ugly with anger.

“Why, hello, Em! When did you get back? You’re a nice one not to let your friends know where you are! Why don’t you write a fellah when you go away? How come you do like you do! Where’s Les? Good evening, Mr. Story.”

Em and Howard had been too intent on their animosities to notice the approach of Tit Miller. He made a round graceful gesture with his hat as he reached their table.

Toby was with him.

Em was obviously discomposed.

“Les is in Chicago,” she said evasively.

“Hello, _dear_ thing.” Toby smiled amorously and his eyes misted. “Mr. Story.” He nodded slowly to Howard. “Can we horn in on your _tête-à-tête_?”

Tit had already seated himself without waiting for an invitation. Both glanced curiously at Em and Howard, whose attitude of domestic altercation had convicted them of intimacy far more unanswerably than a blatant love-passage could possibly have done. Em smiled recklessly.

“Why, of course, children. Come and join our happy family party!”

Howard forced a wry smile. He despised Em’s friends. She will encourage anything, if enough adulation goes with it, he thought contemptuously.

When Tit Miller’s weak fear of those stronger than himself was sufficiently disarmed, he could be a charming unintellectual companion, full of nonsense and quaint antics which had little relation to the esthetic solemnity that annoyed and disgusted strangers. But he was inclined to malicious revenge where his vanity was hurt. And Em’s mood of heedlessness welcomed the signs of antagonism which Howard now showed toward him. She secretly did not care if Tit told. She hoped he would. Howard should acknowledge her. I don’t care for anything.

“You two people look rather glum,” remarked Toby. He was sensitive as to himself, but his intellectualizations about others were just crude enough to miss the fine points of every situation.

“We were just in the midst of a friendly argument.” Howard’s voice was faultlessly careless.

“A friendly quarrel, you mean!” exclaimed Em defiantly. She did not despise diplomacy, she was afraid of it. Anything clean-cut--even a wound. They’re _my_ friends, anyway.

“Maybe Mr. Story’s jealous of your honorable mention,” Tit suggested elaborately.

“That’s it. You’re clever, Mr. Miller.” Howard’s amusement was sinister.

“I am!” Tit replied, with a rather blank flourish of his tasteful hand.

“You ought to have honorable mention for just being, _dear_ girl,” said Toby unctuously, touching her arm with his childish fingers.

“If you will all excuse me, I must go.” Howard spoke insolently, warning in his green eyes.

Em could have let him go, had he been bored. But his malignity called to something in her. A natural delight in hating was alive. She rose uninvited.

“Well, good-by, kittens.” She smiled with bravado and anticipation.

“Where are you living now?” Toby asked fervidly.

Em laughed nervously and glanced at Howard, who was paying their bill.

“We--” she began and stopped. “I’ll look you both up.” She left her toast and milk untouched and followed Howard out of the restaurant. “What is the matter with you?” she asked rashly as she fell into step with him along the dim pavement where the light seemed to dissolve here and there and make glowing stains on the purple night.

“I don’t intend to discuss it in the street.”

Her face was flushed and exultant. She must feel that she was alive, even by pressure and strain.

“Isn’t Tit cute and ridiculous?”

“Very! Charming lyric note!” Howard’s sarcasm was vindictive.

Em was preparing her resources. There was wisdom in forcing Howard to defend himself. Isn’t it childish? But ignoring things is dying while you’re alive. If only big things were alive too--Her stride showed something like exaltation as she walked beside him.

“And Toby is a dear.”

“He’s an erotic fish,” said Howard savagely.

They had reached the apartment. Em lifted her head gallantly as they entered the door. What do I want with her? Howard thought. He could not cope with her! It depressed him that he needed anyone. It was unpleasant to feel that her presence helped him to believe in himself.