Chapter II: Part 2

“No.” Martin shook his head. “I’m not ingenuous, either. I’m conscious. I’m too conscious; it makes me brittle. Nor am I kidding you. I told you the truth. It is curious that I didn’t adjust myself. I tried to think about it occasionally but it didn’t do any good. Other things seemed more important.”

Roberts was listening intently.

“What other things?” he asked.

“Oh—pretending. Sometimes other things; but mostly just pretending.”

“Pretending what?”

“Pretending that I was everything except what I am—that things were different from what they are. I thought that life would move on and somehow carry me with it. I have no way to substantiate this; but all my life I’ve known that the finish was illusive—that it was best for me to float with the current until an eddy whirled me into my right course.”

“Have you struck the eddy?”

Again Martin felt the intimacy of Roberts’ tone and frowned.

“Perhaps you misinterpreted my question,” said the adviser coolly. “I asked if you were in your proper medium.”

Martin flushed and started to rise; but Roberts lifted his hand in a gesture of restraint.

“I really know how you feel,” he said gently. “Perhaps that’s why I spoke as I did. In your capacity as a job hunter, however, there can be no room for individual conflict; particularly in your relationship with one who, understanding, offers both his professional facilities and,” he said more slowly, “his friendship—” all the time looking directly at Martin with the strange color coming and going as he spoke.

“Cheeks—like a lost woman,” said Martin, trying to stop the sentence before it was out of his mouth.

Roberts stared at him for a second in astonishment. Then he went into uncontrollable laughter.

But Martin remained unsmiling.

“I’m sorry I said that,” he remarked severely. “I really can’t excuse it or explain it.”

“Well, I’m not sorry,” said Roberts, leaning forward. “It’s the first genuine fun I’ve had in a long time. I’d like more of it. But I’ll confess—it’s disruptive to the morale of the office.” Still amused, he glanced around him. His speech was high and unbalanced. “However,” he went on, becoming more practical, “I’m going to get you a job.”

“Well—” said Martin.

“No, no,” insisted Roberts. “I’m glad I’m in a position to help you.” Once more, he looked swiftly around him and continued in a lower voice. “I think it’s wonderful to be able to help people. Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Roberts hesitated.

“It’s about the only thing there is in the world,” he said in a still lower tone. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He wrote his address on the card and handed it to Martin.

“I want you to come to my residence this evening. There, we’ll work out your economic destiny.” He smiled faintly.

Martin accepted the card, smiling also, wondering if he really looked this subjective and, if not, why Roberts’ obvious attitude.

“Very well,” he said, facing with curiosity a phenomenon before its occurrence. “What hour?”

“Nine.”

Martin stood up and nodded slightly. It seemed to him that the employees were watching him evasively as he left.

* * * * *

The great city arose with Martin and marched to its hysteria of noon. Then, slowly falling till evening, burst into flame, quieted and slept. Gigantic presses told of her neurosis. In this immutable turning flashed black lines of the growth of the disease. Its people, wooden-eyed, marionette, accepted with grimness; their minds numb and evasive. They held their buildings higher in the air—pointed them like caricatures of things that had gone, of things still to come. But their thoughts were buried. Hidden under music and dust and smothered in light, the precious balance died....

* * * * *

The moon, free of clouds, shone through the blinds and into the living-room of Roberts’ apartment. A crystal vase, without flowers, directed the dim light into a corner. Small ebon figures held out their arms. Roberts was wearing a dark Russian blouse. To Martin, he appeared more fabulous and crystalline than in his office. His flush was constant—so determinate that Martin guessed it artificial, noticing however, that the native, restless color had moved into his eyes. There it remained, fluctuating and searching until it seemed disturbingly like the luminant phosphorus of uncertain, yet violent leaves and shadows Martin had avoided in the tropics. Roberts had been ambiguous throughout the evening and Martin felt that he knew him no better. But he watched the adviser closely—watched each apparent banality for a _double entendre_ and speculated upon the inevitable. He countered each triviality; and made no attempt to acquiesce in a secretive understanding.

Roberts now grew silent for long intervals. With a compelling, but a quiet vision, he observed his young friend. The room had become warmer and frost was forming on the window panes. Once, Roberts arose and ran his finger across the glass, leaving a clear, narrow trail from which fell small drops of moisture.

“It’s colder outside,” he said.

“Much colder,” replied Martin.

Roberts came over and sat down near him.

“Then I take it the warmth of our civilization has its appeal after all?”

In a different fashion Martin confused the scene in as remote and complex a pattern as his friend. Deeply muscled by the sea, he nevertheless was finely drawn as a lady’s slipper and as quick of kicking to the notice. Roberts was aware of this and other features that, to him, were more demanding and elemental; for in his bleached eyes Martin carried the ocean; there was the smell of salt about him—and, Roberts thought, in a sort of painful hysteria, probably sand in his hair. His face, out of the Indies, with its stain from the sun and from his youth, should not hold dignity; and yet it did, in such a steady, high intensity that Roberts caught his breath on it. Martin rubbed his foot over the rug.

“‘Warmth’—of your civilization?” he repeated. “I’m astonished.”

“Perhaps the word was ill-chosen,” answered Roberts. “But whatever our qualities may be, I hope that you prefer them to those which emanate from the fo’c’sle of a West Indian freighter. Now, it is my turn to be astonished. Why did you say ‘_your_ civilization’? Are you not—” Roberts hesitated, “one of us?”

“I’m a seaman. We don’t fit in anywhere on land.” Roberts changed—seemed more severe in the passing light.

“This bold and masterful deception of all seamen is, to me, Martin, a shabby thing. I see it as a trite avoidance of each standard which, although sometimes unbeautiful, is present in the world. Such life, irrelevant and irreverent of all doctrine, is but a switching of responsibilities—a turning of the back that’s shielded by mere boastfulness. In honesty to myself, I must admit that there’s a careless beauty in its physical, sweet shape—the wrap of dungarees—and forgetfulness in song. And yet, it’s impotent. Quite sterile in its loveliness.... And finally, I see the man—the dungarees—the very songs in pity.” The color surged into Roberts’ cheeks and he leaned nearer. “You’ve abused yourself, Martin. There’s been dishonesty in plenty for yourself. And what, dear boy, quite comes of it?”

“Perhaps I do it to hear you drain yourself,” said Martin dryly.

Roberts answered with immediate fierceness.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever talked this way before. But I’ll use your method now, Martin. You need a job. From your card I noticed that you’ve been a printer. Can you operate a linotype?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll arrange things. Now, in heaven’s name—let’s leave this miserable economic status. It’s impossible.”

Martin frowned slightly.

“But isn’t that why I’m here? You said—”

Roberts’ blue eyes became darker.

“Why not quote our professional introduction literally?” he asked. “You were trying to amuse yourself, not help yourself. Why did you do it? Why do you do it now?” With difficulty he restrained his anger. “A job should be considered first, before this premature folly.” He stopped, put out his cigarette and waited, only to be startled by Martin’s sudden laughter. He raised his shoulders arrogantly. “You are entertained then, by emotion?”

“No,” said Martin. “Rather, by a grotesque episode.”

“Grotesque?” Roberts seemed more contemptuous than indignant.

“Indeed,” said Martin, inflamed by this dry attitude. “Grotesque. Absurd. A farcical horse-opera of a lost decade revived in different ribbons, different sex. This renovated melodrama is enough to make one sick!—a pale girl with a stack of mortgage documents fastened in her long, blonde hair, arguing for her virtue with a Russian blouse!”

Roberts listened with fascination. His eyes became solicitous. The tenor of the room altered swiftly.

“You _could_ have been, Martin,” he said in a breath and quite excitedly. “Yes, you could have been.” And then, between his lips, and with no intended insult, Roberts spoke the same one word that he had whispered to Martin that afternoon.

Martin looked at the man and knew this exclamation had never been so used. Without changing his expression he reconstructed Roberts’ face from the fragments of thought that had suddenly charged the room. The pink, hairless mask moved closer—without eyes, without nose, with a single hole in the lower part and a single, dreadful sound protruding.

Along the blinds lay a few ravelings of light. The face regained its natural shape. Only an undermovement of greediness and a distant, crying sound remained.

Roberts walked over to a cabinet and brought back a colored liqueur which he offered to Martin, pouring it slowly and meticulously into Holland glass. He was once more the host, aloof, charming, courteous.

“How do you think you will like your job?” he asked. “I’m sending you to a friend of mine—a Mr. Jackson. He’ll see that you get along.”

“There’s no reason to lie,” Martin answered. “I won’t like it. It’ll be wretched—sitting there, pounding a machine that is more efficient than I am.”

“Then tell me—why do you want a job ashore? Why don’t you go back to sailoring? Or, do you really like that sort of thing after all?”

“It’s a free life,” Martin answered slowly.

“And this is not?”

“I don’t know. But your evaluations interest me.”

Roberts became genuinely curious. All of the coldness left his face and only the deeper lines of his integrity remained.

“What is it that disturbs you, Martin?” he asked gently. “The past or the future? Or the shadow behind the lamp?”

“I imagine the shadows are worst.”

“You intensify them, don’t you?”

“Perhaps I even create some of them. We demand contrast.”

“Mmm.” Roberts, his head nodding loosely, studied him. “You have something in your eyes, Martin,” he said. “If you were a woman I would forget my business, my complacency. I would want to run away with you—if you were a woman.”

Martin hesitated a moment before answering.

“If I were a woman—you would not be interested,” he said at last.

Roberts’ face grew white under the rouge.

“You are candid. But my temperament should not disturb our friendship.”

Martin leaned over, closing his hand about the adviser’s wrist and holding it tightly.

“What do you mean by ‘temperament’?” he asked.

The insolent red came back into Roberts’ cheeks.

“That was young, Martin, my lad. It was cruel.” Then, sensing the flux of blood upon his wrist more keenly, he felt curiously strong. Happiness, nostalgia and strength merged and fused until his mind turned slowly and hung staring down upon the stages of his life. Two pale stars drifted upward and dimmed. Roberts looked into his mother’s eyes.

_CHAPTER V_

Rio lay on a bed in a room on Fourteenth Street. He was in a bad humor. A back tooth ached and he sucked hot smoke from a cigarette against it. The Relief authorities had told him that Martin had signed up, but had disappeared without report. Had he left New York, or had he found a job? Had he changed his mind and caught a ship—Martin was too slippery for an idea to hold on to. Rio’s irritation increased.

“He never was solid,” he said to the girl sitting across the room.

“What do you care?” she answered. “You ain’t in love with him.”

Rio dropped the cigarette butt, pressed his thumb on the coal and rubbed it into the floor.

“Don’t get mad now, sweetheart,” the girl said. “I try to be funny. And that’s more than you done.”

Rio sat up, took his coat and left. There was another chance. Martin might have registered at the Employment Station. Rio walked along Third Avenue, watching faces, stopping frequently to glance inside the saloons. A long line of men, waiting outside one of the Relief restaurants, attracted him. One of the men held out his hand.

“Two for a nickel, buddy,” he said, holding his fingers over the meal-tickets.

“Three for a nickel, pisan,” said Rio, walking on.

It was late afternoon when he reached the Employment Station. Roberts was at his desk when Rio approached. He was turning over the cards in some files and did not look up immediately. Rio, a rollicking expression in his eyes, put his hands on his hips and began to pose slightly. He looked like a male bear under morphine. The adviser glanced at him briefly, saw the attitude and dismissed it.

“Come back to-morrow. It’s five o’clock,” he said.

“I don’t want to sign up,” answered Rio, grinning now. “I’m lookin’ for a shipmate.”

Roberts shook his head.

“They’ll help you at Central Relief Headquarters. This is Employment.” He spoke peremptorily.

“I know,” said Rio. “He signed up over there and never checked out, but he ain’t around. I thought maybe he found a job here.”

“Five o’clock,” Roberts repeated, looking annoyed. “My secretary will check over the list for you.”

“His name is Devaud,” insisted Rio. “Martin Devaud. He’s a sort of young guy.”

“Devaud?” Roberts’ eyes were round. “Have I heard the name? A thin, crippled fellow?”

“No.”

Roberts took a pencil and filled in a blank card.

“We aren’t permitted to give information concerning these men, but if such a person should ever come in, I’ll give him your name.”

“My name’s Rio.”

“What shall I tell him you wanted—if I see him?”

Rio stuck his thumb against his chin.

“You don’t need to tell him nothin’.” He leaned on the desk.

Roberts looked at him stiffly. The color surged into his cheeks.

“Is that all? I’m accustomed to accepting, not giving information. Unless you give me the particulars I need, it will be impossible to coöperate with you. Is this boy wanted for any misdemeanor?”

Rio’s face turned a heavy red.

“This boy ain’t wanted for ‘any misdemeanor.’ This boy’s a friend of mine. He’s on the beach. I want to see him.”

Roberts dropped the card on his desk. He showed the stamp of discipline.

“Have you ever been thrown out of anywhere?”

“Not by ten like you.”

“Fortunately there are gentlemen here vested with that privilege.” The adviser nodded across the room at several policemen.

Rio laughed.

“Fortunately? Gentlemen?” He walked away, then turned. “I’ll see you later, Mister!”

Roberts watched him leave. Powerful brute, he thought. Rio! A shipmate. A friend. How good a friend? Roberts put his finger to his lips. Certainly not a good contact for Martin. Damn the intimacy of the sea—like prison, like Devil’s Island, holding men together, destroying all the niceties of camaraderie.... Were those stories true about men on ships? A sordid subject exaggerated out of all proportion—still, some of it must be true. That big fellow. Was he? He had been unwarrantedly excited.

Rio left the Station. Mr. Fish inside would look good with his teeth out. Strictly fruit, huh? By God, these governors! Well, what of it?... Where to look now? Martin wasn’t trying to ship. He wasn’t at the Hall or on the docks. He wasn’t on Relief. He hadn’t got a job at the Station—or was Roberts lying. “Gentlemen here vested with that privilege!”

Rio took a train to Forty-second Street. The bright, flashing lights of Broadway shut out the early stars. The hurrying expanse of faces had less individuality than waves. There was no bond between their eyes and his, impassionate. They were as eternal, as indestructible as ants. They passed him, died, were born and passed again; a long, driving throng, pale and imperishable, typed and counterparted into immortality. Rio turned away, disgusted. Martin wasn’t there. He’d die in such a sea. God bless sailors and their drifted lives.

Rio returned to his room and lay down on the bed, nervous from its quiet. He saw the unused pitcher—one of dignity; with whiteness and good height. It made him slightly sick. There was a girl’s bag on a chair; and one article, too intimate, beside it. He rolled over. Suddenly the doorknob rattled.

“What is it?” he called out, impatiently.

Two girls walked in, smiling, red-cheeked.

“Hello, Rio,” one of them said. “Did you find your buddy?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad, Rio.”

“Look here,” said Rio, unsmiling. “This is amateur night. Now beat it.”

_CHAPTER VI_

Martin worked into the routine of the printing plant. There were thirty linotypes around him, shielding him with their clamor. He found retreat in their noise and liked to feel that he was a lever or cam, bending or turning inconspicuously in the tide of words. He hid his revulsion as an automaton and mixed his sweat with the oil of the machinery. There was an acrid taste of hot lead in the air, a taste of ink, the taste and rattle of matrices. Martin could feel his shoulders bend into the machine—could see the horizon shrink to the area of light on his copy. Type, type, type—up with the line. Feel the grinding of the fellow, pressing, digesting. Out with the slug, searing hot and good to calloused fingers.

When evening came and work was over, Martin straightened his back and went to the wash-trough. The gritty soap smelled good, like candy. He associated it with freedom. Outside, he felt like running—jumping a hydrant, racing a car. He wanted to shout at the slanting sunlight.

He lived uptown, at one of the most inexpensive club-hotels for men. The rooms were clean and, from the standpoint of his present earnings, the cost was reasonable. Most of the residents were hard-working fellows who needed a place to sleep. Martin read the recreational program; but women were not included in its itinerary, so he remained in his room or walked up and down the street.

He sat in his room, thinking to a point and back. The period seemed interminable. The break, the nervous ejaculation that would throw him out of this treadmill seemed further away than before. He remembered the sea and ships upon it, hot rain, salt and rust and bubbling, rising life. The memory filled his nose and lungs and mind.

“God damn,” he said, and struck the wall with his hand.

The buzzer in his room sounded and he went to the house-phone in the hall to answer.

“Hello, Martin. How are you?”

“Hello, Roberts.”

“I have a surprise, Martin. There’s a little party and I’d like you to come with me. Just a few people. Would you like to?”

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to.”

“Good. I’ll come by for you. It will all be very informal, very casual.”

“Indeed it will,” said Martin.

“What’s that?”

“I said, indeed it will.”

“What do you mean?”

Martin could feel Roberts’ eyes over the wire, slightly protruding, and his eyebrows moving gently up and down.

“I meant nothing. When will you be here?”

“Oh. Soon. It’s unexpected.”

“Thanks,” said Martin. “Till then.”

He went back to his room and shaved. Next he put on one black sock and one gray one—not for style’s sake, nor to be eccentric. When he was dressed he looked earnestly in the mirror.

“Pale,” he said. He sat down on the bed and stared at the wall. It seemed a long time to him before Roberts rapped on the door.

“I’m glad to see you,” Martin exclaimed with relief. “It’s you all right—you and your intolerable verve.”

Roberts laughed.

“Good heavens! What finery!” he cried, looking at Martin’s suit, which was pressed.

Roberts was wearing a Derby. There was a narrow beaver collar on his dark topcoat and under the fur was a light, silken scarf. He carried white knitted gloves. He stood for a few moments in the doorway looking at Martin. Then, throwing his hat and gloves on the bed, he went over to the mirror and adjusted his scarf, observing himself carefully.

Martin lay back in his chair and watched him, a twinkle in his eye.

“You’re beautiful, all right,” he said.

Roberts turned around and nodded seriously.

“I know I am,” he answered. “But there is more character than feature—that’s what pleases me.”

Martin laughed good-naturedly and got out of his chair.

“Both qualities are necessary for complicity with women, aren’t they?”

Roberts gave him a slow, cynical smile and they left.

* * * * *

Martin was sorry that he had accepted the invitation to the party when he met his hostess, for her immoderate greeting brought about a sudden loneliness within him. Among the guests this feeling of desolation grew stronger. Their faces and smiles seemed vaporous and foreign. One large fellow grinned persistently, his eyes unfocused. Only the hostess retained her buoyancy. She bounded from person to person with an amazing levity. There were sentences all over the room, but they were incoherent, more porous than the faces. Feeling helpless, Martin went to a corner and sat down. One of the guests sang “_The Bells of St. Mary’s_” backwards, and Martin began to doze.

Through his discomfort he heard a new voice. Clear, apart from the conversation, it held his attention. He opened his eyes. Near the fireplace at the other end of the room, on a large divan and leaning far back into it, sat a blond young man, his legs crossed. In spite of his careless attitude, Martin was conscious of the earnestness with which the other regarded him. Fully aware of Martin’s observation the man continued to look at him squarely. At last he sat straighter, brushed his hair into place with a sweep of his hand and gave Martin an unusually provocative smile. Its good nature was genuine, but Martin kept to his own melancholy and somber stare. He had never seen a man with such apparent knowledge of his blood and caste, nor one so youthfully wise. Altogether, Martin saw in him a weathered, inbred prototype of himself, an experienced apprentice. It was the soil, the rash, the water Martin needed; and he continued to stare like a child absorbed. It was not until the young man turned to his companion that Martin realized that a woman as individual—more quickly individual, held his strange friend’s arm. Under Martin’s continued gaze she placed her other hand upon the blond man’s sleeve and looked up at him questioningly.

In the half-light of the room Martin could see her profile—could feel the intensity of her womanhood; and it caused him to forget, momentarily, her companion. Holding her throat that way, the way her breast rose under her satin gown, the unnatural silver in her dark hair caused Martin to speculate—to wonder at his own abreaction. He felt awkward and indecisive, yet withal, an inconsiderate urge and tightness under his collar. He could scarcely restrain himself from walking over and speaking. But he stayed quiet instead, and felt hot and cold at each thought, and finally decided he would just go away from sheer itching. When at last the woman did turn to look at him he continued to stare at her for a moment the same way he had done with the young man. Then he found that his thoughts were going down the satin dress to the slim waist and hips that seemed to be moving under his watery eyes, and down at last to her stockings.

“It isn’t her legs,” he thought. “It’s her stockings and every damnable, secret place they lead to.” Looking up again he saw her young clear lips, tattooed; and, he imagined, caps of equally bright color under her dress. Her eyes were the most beautiful of all of her, and yet the worst; for Martin, in amazement that they should translate his idiom so perfectly, felt that they were turning him inside out so that each thought and desire could be read plainly. However, there was something else about the woman that made him want to go away, or come, or do anything as long as it was she who sent him away, or took him in.

“I’m mad,” he said. “She’s nothing but a brood-mare. A wild, teasing brood-mare stamping for me. But I wish I had her in the grass where she should lie.” And he turned his flushed, wet face toward Roberts who was approaching.

“At whom are you looking?” asked the adviser, suspicion in his tone.

“I was watching,” Martin answered.

“Where are you looking?” persisted the adviser.

“I believe I should go home,” said Martin briefly.

Roberts looked around in the direction of Martin’s stare and smiled without amusement.

“Come along,” he said, sighing and taking his friend by the arm. “Either one was inevitable, I suppose.”

Without answering, Martin walked with him to the couch where the young man and his companion were sitting.

“I want you both to know Martin,” said Roberts. “He was just going home on account of you. I wonder what he meant, Deane,” he continued, ignoring the young man who stood up, smiling unconcernedly. “What did he mean, Drew?” he asked, this time of the man; and without waiting for an answer, sat down rather sulkily, peering from under his eyelids at Deane as though he was displeased, for Martin and Drew had moved a short distance away from the divan and had begun to talk together.

Deane looked at Roberts with understanding, her brilliant lips open, her cool, dark eyes filled with indulgence.

“Your friend looks interesting enough,” she said. “Why does he upset you? Isn’t he your protegé? Dear Ella,” she glanced toward the hostess, “intimated as much.”

“Damn her fat tongue,” said Roberts. “But,” he continued wearily, “I wish he were, Deane. I’m part of him and he doesn’t know it—or pretends not to. I gave him a rotten job. A job full of grit and lead and ashes and he won’t—he won’t——”

Deane seemed a little contemptuous.

“No?”

Roberts shook his beautiful head and turned away despairingly.

“A young girl in her first romance,” said Deane, speaking now with an undertone of anger.

“You only think me so,” went on the adviser, still desperate. “But I’ve waited for this a thousand years and it goes in one bleak night to my one dear friend,” he looked up at Drew who was still standing before Martin, “or,” he ended bitterly, glancing once more at the woman beside him, “to you. I tell you, I know him, Deane. I saw it in his eyes. He was watching you so. I never saw him watch me that way. Never!”

Deane looked at him in amazement.

“You?” she cried. “Watch _you_?”

Roberts, observing her, sat straighter, became more haughty.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “He never looked that way at me. And _I’m_ mad because of necessity and not an empty wish! It’s the bone of me—it’s my flesh and the rancor of centuries!” He stood up, trembling.

“Drew!” he called commandingly. He was white, beautiful and Satanic in his rage.

Drew started, looked around at him and the two young men stepped nearer.

“Roberts!” cried Drew in consternation.

But the adviser merely waved his hand.

“Roberts!” said Martin slowly. His eyes half closed, and in the space where the iris showed came a harsh light as if misdirected robots were moving behind the lashes. His face, still burned by the sea, became intent. It was as though he were concentrating upon a floating object. Motile, sensitive lines drew around the corners of his eyes and turned from rust to white. Under this stare, Roberts faltered in his attitude of severity; and wheeling suddenly, without excuse, his hands half out, walked swiftly across the room to the buffet where he stood, leaning one arm upon it.

Deane sat quietly, watching Martin. There was now a look of contempt upon his face. It formed about the fine cheeklines, which by themselves seemed to curl until the face solidified and grew articulate with sour flutes of madness. He took a step toward Roberts and Drew caught him by the arm.

“What is it, Martin?” he asked. “In heaven’s name, don’t look that way! Be careful! Everyone is watching you. Stay here with us!”

Abruptly, Martin sat down with Deane, so close that she could feel him tremble. She looked up quickly at Drew, who nodded, and with a brief, inscrutable smile, left them and went to Roberts.

As he waited for Roberts to speak, there was a tactfulness and grace about him which the adviser could not evade.

“Drew,” he said at last, “listen to me. It’s dreadful.” He paused to look steadily at his friend. “I can’t work without thinking about him. I can’t eat. It’s a damnable obsession! And to think!—with such a shameful lad!”

Drew appeared listless.

“Is that the word, Roberts?”

“It’s the smallest I can think of.”

Drew took a purple flagon containing a cordial from the buffet, holding it so that he might find its color from the room’s dim light.

“No,” he said, “‘shameful’ is not the word. Rather I should say,” he hesitated, “‘shameless.’”

Roberts regarded him carefully.

“What is your interpretation of that word?”

“The usual one,” said Drew slowly. “A lacking of, Roberts. Not a diverting of.”

“You think then, that he has no moral sense at all,” said Roberts, as though in agreement.

Drew tilted the flagon, observing the changing violet lights as the clear, thick drops of the liqueur ran individually down the neck of the bottle.

“It isn’t this important, dear,” he said. “It _can’t_ be this important.” He was still observing the flagon. “Do you know this amazing drink?” he asked. “It comes from a small flower that grows only in the Bavarian Alps, and at an altitude of between four and five thousand feet. This very discriminating blossom is called the ‘blue dormant.’ ... A boy once pointed out to me the place where they grew,” he said reflectively.

“Oh! Damn you, Drew!” said Roberts miserably. “Answer my question. You’ve often told me that you, yourself, were unmoral, not immoral—are you drawing a likeness?”

Drew replaced the Gebirge Enzian and faced Roberts, sincerity in his voice.

“You were terribly upset and I chatted a bit. That’s all. I don’t even know what I said, and I don’t believe you meant what you said.”

“Oh, I do.” Roberts nodded his head grimly. “Indeed I do. Look over there.” He motioned slightly in the direction of Martin and Deane who were speaking intimately with each other. “Do you see that, my love?” he went on contemptuously. “As catching as flypaper and as promiscuous. And yet I can’t help myself. The very way he looks at Deane puts arrows into me.” Suddenly Roberts’ eyes filled with tears, and half choking, he turned from the guests and from Ella, who was hovering nearby and who seemed frightfully amused. Instinctively, Drew stepped close to him, his protective shadow encircling the bent shoulders of his friend, hiding the quiet sob.

* * * * *

When Drew had gone to Roberts, Deane placed her hand on Martin’s for a moment, then withdrew it gently, without speaking.

“It was a kiss,” thought Martin. “She’s bringing me across the river.... A proud woman, with her hair like the lights of a ship.... A woman sheltered, but one inalienable to love.... I wish she’d smile again.... God help me! She’s on my trail like a hound! I might as well have spoken through a trumpet.” Turning toward her he said, “I really shouldn’t have come here. I feel out of place. But,” he hesitated, “I thought that it might be ... and it is,” he added shortly.

Deane started to touch him again, then stopped, for Martin looked so eager and shy that she became the same way.

“Damn it!” thought Martin. “What a trip!” ... “Well,” he said aloud, “it shouldn’t have been.”

Deane laughed softly. Martin could see the black diagonal stripes across her red kid slippers and this cabalistic signal took his thoughts back wantonly to the Church where so often as a child he had released his theological rut into the dark precipices of the Cathedral. Those fearfully sweet memories came sharply into his mind now and he remembered how the vast, swelling notes of the organ had lifted him up and rocked him into peacefulness. Nostalgia overcame him as he continued to gaze at the little red and black slippers. Then he grimly blocked these crevices of the mind which exude a flavor too ghastly even for the pith and stench of the undersoul, and he spoke again, this time without thought or conception.

“I mean,” he said, “that for a long time the parties I’ve gone to have been so apart from this sort of thing—that is, apart dimensionally. The people were plain and simple. There were rivers, mostly yellow, and bushes and trees to lend informality, and all the music came out of parrots. Once, along such a river-path, I met a man with a nose as broad as my fist. His dark skin had such heavy needlework upon it that it was beveled like tooled leather. His feet splayed like a water-creature’s. We couldn’t speak each other’s language, but we both understood food. It made us friends. We had mashed rice, water, and some kind of grape he’d brought out of the forest over his shoulder.” Martin stopped abruptly at Deane’s curious look.

“I’m sure there was that and more in the tropics, Martin,” she said deliberately. “There was the Right Honorable Lord Jesus stamping through the jungle.”

Martin, embarrassed and yet amused, looked steadily at Deane.

“Such things can, and should be reduced,” he said. “I’d have been impatient, myself.” He hesitated, unable to keep from staring at the soft line of her throat where each shadow lay like a bruise upon her skin. This intimation of her feeling for light, of limbs too tender, made him lift his intense eyes to her own which were even more brilliant. “Please,” he continued, “will you please let me take you home?”

Now, Deane saw him differently, with more excitement. What an enigma! And what a charming transition from his faint braggadocio (or was it!) to this straightforward question. She knew that he was waiting for an answer, yet she was silent. Silent while they kept turning their heads to reassure each other like naughty children in the cool green brush and willows by a railroad track. They knew. They understood completely; and Martin, in this Roman anticipation, shivered; and when at last they did stand up to separate only for a moment they still seemed to cling together helplessly. Once, as they crossed the floor, Martin paused, and Deane, aware of his intention, went on alone. She disappeared into the hallway, and the sight of her sweet entirety, her gown, the thought beneath it made Martin caustic and erect. Only then did he look around to see that Drew and Roberts were observing him. As he came up to them, Drew greeted him warmly, but Roberts held his face away.

“We were talking of compassion,” said Drew, smiling. “It takes sophistry, Martin.” He turned to his other friend. “Isn’t that true, Roberts?” he asked.

“It takes common sense,” said the adviser.

“It takes that, too,” said Martin. “It takes sophistry and common sense and a hundred other things. But I prefer to leave it to the Giver.”

“Right,” said Roberts angrily. “It takes the god-damned miserable Giver!” Then more softly, “Deane Idara is a remarkable woman, Martin. You realize that she has recently suffered a severe shock?”

“No! A shock, you say?”

Roberts’ eyes shone above the sudden pallor of his cheeks.

“Yes,” he said. “She lost her husband only a very short while ago.”

“Why did you tell me that?” asked Martin rapidly. He tried to quiet himself, but he bit his lip and looked at Drew rather wildly. “I understand death. I too have died. I too have seen intimate death.” The phosphorus shone again in his eyes. “Cowardly remark!” he said under his breath.

The adviser seemed to draw within himself, growing even more pale. He spoke sarcastically.

“Do you mean that you, too, Martin, have lost a husband?”

Martin glanced again at Drew who was standing motionless, expressionless, then back at Roberts. He could scarcely move his lips.

“I’m going home,” he said. “Goodnight, Drew. And goodnight, Roberts.”

“Goodnight,” Drew answered, holding out his hand to detain the adviser who was automatically following. “Goodnight, Martin,” Drew called after him again. Then, “Roberts!” he whispered uneasily, still holding his friend’s arm. “You don’t have even the foundation! _Won’t_ you be sensible?”

* * * * *

Deane Idara was standing at the door. Martin’s shadow fell across her face and they left the apartment. Outside, the air was high and pointed with light. Crisp new stars whizzed over them, brightening the street. Martin could feel her arm get tighter and tighter, and his own breath became heavier until in the darkness between corner-lamps he swung her round to him and kissed her cold little wet lips. With his arms around her and the feel of her lips becoming warmer under his, he whispered, “I’ll kill you. Oh, by God!—I’ll kill you, I love you so!” And then he kissed her again until he felt himself just going away as he had thought he would. Deane was pressing as tightly as she could against him, but her head seemed to fall back too loosely and Martin kept saying, “I’ll get a taxi, dear. I’ll get a cab.” He waved at several until one stopped, and after they had climbed inside he pulled Deane to him and asked, “Where are we going, dear?” She kissed him, and Martin could feel her breath on his cheek. The cab driver slumped down in his seat indifferently and lit a cigarette. “Where are we going, Deane?” Martin asked again.

“Not far,” she answered, nodding to him feverishly. “Tell him to drive up the street. It’s one sixty-nine....”

Her apartment was dim and motionless. A long window faced the line of city buildings. Martin and Deane stood before it, breathing the soundless air. In this black and white panorama he felt indistinct, separate from his identity. He had removed his topcoat and he imagined he could feel Deane’s skin against his, so tight was her black gown. They stood by the window, holding each other in a sensuous embrace of expectation—of change of clime. Then he thought of her stockings and her sacramental slippers. They were furiously beautiful and revealing against the rug. Martin put his hand within her blouse and held it there while she pressed closely to him. He unslipped a button, then another, and another. “I’ve buck fever, Deane,” he whispered hoarsely.

Deane shook her hair, her eyes blazing.

“You helpless bastard,” cried Martin to himself.... “Let’s break it, Deane,” he whispered to her once more. “Let’s break it completely,” and he pulled the loosened gown from her white shoulders. “And here’s mine,” he went on, continuing the motion until his opened shirt and singlet were flat against her breast. “We’ll call it the wild black clogs of Belgium, dearest,” and he clenched his hard brown arms around her waist. Without speaking further he took her hand and led her into the adjoining room. He sat down on the gray paneled bed, pulling her surely beside him. Deane saw the slight trembling of his lips and the heavy expression of his eyes which stirred her with an intoxication that was close to fear. She was drawn by the swift pace of his emotion, yet held back by the certainty of his demand. Even as she was thinking, the rapid heartbeats against her became more rapid and the pressure of Martin’s hands brought so definite a response that all vaporous abstractions were forgotten and she knew herself in an immediate physical presence. Wanting Martin as she did, the knowledge of his action brought no idle gestures; and she was quiet, with eyes half closed as she felt herself lifted, then rested, with Martin’s arm for a pillow. Infinitesimal beads of moisture formed on Martin’s temples as his hand caught the rim of her stocking, but the warm, soft flesh above it made him cry out softly. The very lights seemed tenderer and the very shadows kinder as these two lovers held each other. The night was penetrated by a question, by a sob; and all the cruelties and perversions of humanity were justified by this union—natural, unashamed and magnificent in simplicity and passion.

_CHAPTER VII_

Roberts waited near the printing plant the following afternoon. When Martin came out he went swiftly to him, holding out his hand. There was haggardness and strain—a formation of new lines in Roberts’ face.

“I could hardly wait till you were through work to-day, Martin,” he said anxiously. “I have been terribly distressed over last night. I feel that it was my mistake—entirely my mistake. I was overminded by my zealousness—or,” he hesitated, “by my jealousy. You know how I feel about you. You do know, don’t you?”

Martin, following his emotion, rather than the outposts of his mind which usually warned him, was drawn to Roberts by this speech, so painful and revealing.

“For God’s sake, Roberts,” he said, “there wasn’t any mistake. But if there is anything deserving such a name, we’ll forget my fault, and yours.”

Roberts sighed with relief.

“Then you _will_ forgive your old mother?” he asked contentedly.

“I forgive myself and you,” repeated Martin.

Roberts did not hear, or hearing, did not understand. A strong impression of brotherhood made his hands tremble. A feeling of careless happiness exhilarated him. The vision grew clearer and his heart tried gallantly to keep pace with his mind’s picture of the Affinities, striding hand in hand against the foolish tide of intolerance and misunderstanding. He took Martin’s arm and started down the street, a new freedom in his eyes.

“We are going to have dinner together to-night, Martin.”

“I’m sorry, Roberts, but I have an engagement.”

Roberts laughed.

“Oh, you’ll come, all right!” He swung on to Martin’s arm. “We’ll have the most glorious dinner of our lives. We’ll put the table by the radio and have our sherry with Bach—yes, with Bach. But you may have Delius with your Chablis.” He shook his finger in Martin’s face and laughed again. “I warn you, however, our Benedictine will call for Wagner! The renegade!—The impious Pretender! We’ll swing his stomach like a bell over our Benedictine.”

Martin’s cheeks were sucked in. He seemed ready to laugh but his eyes were shaded.

Roberts, still chuckling, glanced at him carelessly in his merriment and was astonished.

“Martin!” he cried.

“I’m sorry. Some other time I’d like to. But to-night, I can’t come.”

Rage, a positive hatred, shook the adviser. Words of reproach and anger were about to be spoken when he was deterred by the same quality in Martin’s face that had quieted him before. This time, even in his shame, he tried to analyze the reason—to connect and precipitate Martin’s features into the symbol that stopped his fury. He felt that it was an earth-impression—a breath of old winds—a shade of substratum clay—a distillation neither spatial nor timely. He saw Martin’s face in retrospect as the outline of a rising mountain crag, lonely within the moon; or as the shaping pseudopods of cloud that are confusing in their similarity to some ancient clot of memory.

But Roberts was not easily defeated. He spoke evenly.

“We _must_ have dinner together to-night.”

“I have an engagement,” repeated Martin.

“An engagement! _Our_ dinner is important.”

“My engagement is the kind you can’t break.”

“Really!” A supercilious expression flitted across Roberts’ face and his one sharp word carried an air of volubility.

Martin, looking straight ahead, made one more effort.

“Won’t you walk down this way with me?” he asked.

“But this is a special dinner,” protested Roberts, following him.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, I see. I didn’t realize your social program was so strenuous.”

“This is the first thing of its sort,” Martin replied.

“First thing of its sort?” Roberts laughed shortly.

“Yes,” Martin answered. “That was awkwardly put.”

“Yes,” said Roberts, a mimicking expression on his face. “Yes, yes.”

“Let’s not break this, please.” Martin spoke earnestly.

Roberts’ voice acquired a superior tone.

“I can’t help it, Martin, if your sense of values is unintelligent,” he said.

“I wish you would understand.”

“I do understand.” Roberts held his finger in the air warningly. “Don’t let some transitory illusion make a fool of you, dear boy.”

“‘Transitory illusion?’” asked Martin absentmindedly. “It has a history and a future.”

“Deane Idara is a clever woman,” observed Roberts. “But you have a job.”

Martin smiled queerly.

“Doesn’t my job depend upon my work?” he asked.

Roberts stopped abruptly and faced him.

“I can tolerate rudeness, but not unkindness,” he declared with dignity.

Martin took the other by his arm.

“I want to be as good a friend as you’ve been to me, Roberts,” he said, trying to speak calmly. “Every contact, economic or social that I have, you’ve made for me. I’d not be myself if I were unappreciative. That’s not it alone, though. We have many things together—food—and music—isolate cynicisms—and all these have their place. You understand. You know, also, that even with the best of friends, sometimes a path divides. Certain diversions, certain loves, are found impossible in common.”

“But love is what I need,” said Roberts quietly.

“That element is fugitive.”

“And still I need it.”

“The whole world does,” insisted Martin.

“But I, especially.”

“It’s too difficult, Roberts.”

“Nothing is difficult,” he replied. His voice was sorrowful. “Martin! Break this date with Mrs. Idara.”

“It has more than precedence, Roberts.”

“I demand it.”

“Then,” said Martin, a feeling of exhaustion coming over him, “I’m afraid there’s no alternative. I turn down here.”

Roberts’ wide blue eyes looked white in the twilight.

“We’ve been fools, Martin. We should never quarrel. Let’s forget all this. Come on.” He was like a small boy pulling at Martin’s arm. “We’ll have wine and chicken. We’ll have mushrooms.”

It might have been a sob.

“I can’t.”

Roberts, blinded to Martin, stared at him. Then he turned swiftly. His eyes darkened in the first lights of evening and he walked hurriedly away.

* * * * *

Roberts’ face superimposed the view from the window where Martin stood with Deane. Its expression was somber and equivocal. Through this skeletal haze they watched the city’s significant pantomime—the silhouettes and flashings, the play of shadows below them.

“You’ve seen Roberts, haven’t you?” asked Deane quite suddenly.

Martin looked down at her bright sandals. She was wearing a deep blue hostess gown, nearly the color of the evening sky. A burnished cross, held by a woven cord, fell from her throat and lay between her breasts, and again Martin saw the silver within her hair as mast lights over the water.

She picked up a cigarette and lit it for him. Around the tip, the moist red paste from her lips left a scarlet ring. She put the cigarette in Martin’s mouth.

“Yes,” he said, holding the smoke in his lungs, “I’ve seen Roberts. But he has no place up here.”

Deane looked at him strangely.

“He disturbs me, Martin. I don’t like him.”

“He disturbs, me, Deane. He wanted me to have dinner with him to-night. When I told him I had an engagement he knew it was with you. One wheel in his brain spins on an eccentric.”

“What can he do?”

“He can kill the copper goose—cause me to lose my job. And it’s all wrong. We like each other. We should have been good friends. I admire him. He has a mind, and my brand of humor. The first time I saw him at that Relief place I was attracted to him. I wanted to know him better.”

“But couldn’t you see that he was—different?”

“You call it ‘different.’ Roberts calls it temperamental.’ Rio would call it——” He stopped.

“Rio! Who is Rio?”

“Oh. Rio? He was a shipmate. An individual. Sometime I’ll tell you what I know about him.... But to get back. I did know that Roberts was different. I believe I knew it the first time I saw him. It didn’t interfere with my admiration for him. I was lonely. Hard work on ships had surfeited me with the physical. I didn’t hesitate at the specter of consequences—although I did anticipate them. I believed that I could handle them. I couldn’t. You see, Roberts was convinced that I, too, was ‘temperamental.’”

Deane made an impatient gesture.

“He had no reason to think that.”

“Perhaps he did,” said Martin thoughtfully. “Perhaps he had a combination of reasons. First of all, I took no pains to hide my interest in him. Perhaps he misunderstood the motive. And then, there are gestures and expressions that are open to suspicion. The line of demarcation in such friendships seems variable. Roberts wanted me to belong to his group, and whether the misconstruction was artificial or genuine, he arrived at a conclusion. Tell me what you know about him, Deane.” He turned to her impulsively.

“Then I must tell you of his mother, Martin. She was as luxuriant as himself and more. She was pure crystal with the same high febrile cheeks, but an attitude so strong that I always felt his should be less. I’m sure though, that no one could touch her but himself—at least, I felt she swept along in an invulnerable carriage of glass, indifferent to any but her son. William Roberts finds his coloring from her, and his bearing, and his remarkable beauty; for,” Deane observed in reminiscence, “he wears a tie or scarf the way she wore her pearls, as though they were a part of her throat. They were glorious pearls—a small dark strand with a diseased, slow luster, indistinct in tone, but so inseparable from her body that when her skin assumed the radiance we see in Roberts, they followed her as though they loved her. What her husband meant to her before his death seemed of little importance; for her life, so obviously, was contained in Roberts’ glance, his frown, or contradictory expression. These two were more like complementary figurants intent upon each other in their mutual demand than like a mother and son. That he adored her showed in every action—from the way he placed her shawl—” Deane looked at Martin briefly, “from the gentle manner with which he drew her shawl over her exquisite, proud shoulders (it was like a caress!) to his affectionate concern over trivialities—her slightest expression, or even guarded undertones that no one knew except themselves. Once, I saw them when he became aware of a woman speaking—I knew it was without intent—and then I saw his mother’s strength. She never moved—no line of her face changed; but everything in the room became alive and hard. To me, it seemed that the tender pearls around her throat turned into steel. The woman who had been speaking with Roberts became confused, faltered, and he seemed ready to rise from his chair. But at this, his mother smiled faintly and spoke graciously to the other woman. It was all right, apparently; but I was chilled and felt ever so glad when the party broke up. Shortly after that, Martin, the mother died, and I am sure that part of Roberts went with her.” Deane was speaking intensely, with a fixed, unusual look toward Martin which he accepted steadily. Since he would not speak, she made a curious remark. “This, you knew, Martin—not the way I told it; but you knew.”

“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, I knew.” He turned from her, staring out of the window into the darkness.

The doorbell rang.

“It’s Drew,” said Deane. “No one else would come here at this time——unless——” she looked at Martin, and for a moment seemed to be less assured. Then she lifted her head. “No! _He_ wouldn’t—Roberts wouldn’t dare! I’d better answer.”

Drew entered and kissed Deane lightly on the cheek.

“You’re lovely,” he said, holding her arm affectionately and extending his left hand to Martin who, embarrassed, knew of nothing but to squeeze the delicate, closed fingers.

Drew smiled faintly and sat down, crossing his slender legs.

“I just left Ella, poor girl,” he said, with a sigh. “She wouldn’t have a doctor. So she called me.”

Deane looked at him in surprise.

“Ella sick? Why, she seemed very well last night. Should I see her?”

“I shouldn’t bother,” said Drew, smiling faintly again. “I gave her a bromide and devotedly held her hand till she went to sleep. She’ll be all right in the morning.”

“But what happened?” insisted Deane.

Drew leaned forward and spoke more seriously.

“I’m glad both of you left when you did,” he said. “Roberts drank consistently—a thing he’s never done before, and left in a stagger, vowing he would never see Ella again. He spoke rather madly in his apartment, too. I stayed with him most of the night.” Drew sighed once more. “Of course, both of you are to blame.”