Chapter IX: Part 9

The older woman called the dog to her. She put her arm around him and called him “Willie.” It was not the word. It was her eyes, and her mouth, and the way her hands worked. “It is an indictment of womanhood,” thought Martin. The woman looked at him; and seeing him stand so cold and full of hatred, she held the dog tighter. She held his fur and his body tighter; but Willie had gone. He was standing by a campfire. His hair was singed and there was a red line across his shoulders. His eyes were tired and glad with dreams.

Every woman feels biological change. It is her first lesson and her last. Although she often misinterprets her intuitive strength, she possesses it. This woman looked at Willie. She could not smell the singed hair nor see the red line; but she did see his eyes. A sadness, a real sorrow was in her. She turned from the dog to Martin who stood contemptuous and erect, and she turned away.

“Now am I right,” Martin asked himself, observing in spite of his anger this dark woman’s passion, “to condemn the ovary that cries out for its sister?—and absolve by ritual the formulated counterpart in man?” He stood there, pondering in this procession of new thought. “And am I wrong, that I can’t feel the love that topples ethics, puts wire in soft fingers with one breath!... Why can’t I feel the music of one breast upon another? And why do I call such music ‘black,’ when I might taste much softer lips than mine upon much softer lips?... These dismal cries—two sheer stockings ripped from their garters and one frightened voice saying, ‘God! Make it straight with me!’—while the other, frantically tries syntheses and fluctuating pose....” Martin watched the slender clouds beyond the black roofs for a moment, then went below.

* * * * *

Martin was drowsing on the couch in his room when there was a rap at the door which he had left open. He glanced up sleepily. Roberts was standing there, an attempted smile only accentuating his moroseness.

“Come on in,” said Martin cordially, sitting up. “Have a chair. That one’s the most comfortable.” He pointed to the rocker.

“Damn comfort,” replied Roberts, nevertheless sitting down. He was thinner. There was an harassed expression on his face which Martin had never seen before. “I dare say you’re surprised at my coming here,” he continued.

“No,” said Martin, frankly good-humored. “And I’m glad to see you.”

The adviser waved the words away.

“Don’t be social, in heaven’s name. It isn’t in your make-up. And if _you’re_ not surprised, I am, considering the attitude you’ve taken toward me lately.”

Martin laughed, stood up and stretched and offered him a cigarette.

“Don’t be a damned grouch, Roberts. You never got an attitude you didn’t ask for. Light up, and I’ll show you some work I’m doing. It’s too hot to fight.”

“Stop talking like a hussy,” said the adviser as he took the cigarette. His face was damp and his hand was shaking.

Martin half-closed his eyes and there was a curious line about his mouth. Then he laughed again and held out a lighted match.

“What’s so amusing?” asked Roberts, holding his hand against his cheeks which seemed to be burning. “Is it this squalor you’re living in, or is it I? You’re steeped in sin, Martin; but this is the first time I’ve felt the flatness of hypocrisy.” There lay his mistake. He’d struck a heel softer than he knew. For with every flaw Martin had, he hated the word just spoken the most. His entire appearance changed and his cheeks became as white as Roberts’ were red.

“Are you here as a friend?” he asked.

The changed timbre of Martin’s voice seemed to stabilize Roberts.

“As a friend.” The adviser was serious. “I have something that should interest you vitally.” He regarded Martin, who still seemed unresponsive. “Don’t underestimate this,” Roberts continued severely. “I happen to know that Carol is following you.” He waited intently for the effect of this speech upon his listener.

“I suspected as much,” answered Martin. “In fact, I found him at it one night and asked him up.”

“What?” cried Roberts, shocked, amazed, with every thread of jealousy burning in his face. “Good God, Martin! The man’s dangerous. I know him better than you do. He’s pathological. He’ll stop at nothing. And you permitted him—you saw him here, alone?”

“Yes,” said Martin dryly. “All, all alone.”

Roberts stood up, propped his stick in a corner and walked the length of the room. His head was lowered; he was absorbed as if debating with himself. At last, he turned swiftly.

“You don’t want to die, do you?” he asked, staring.

“No.”

“Then watch out.”

“For what?”

“For that kind of impudence which incurs my displeasure.”

Martin leaned back against the head of the couch, put his chin on his hands and looked solemnly at his visitor.

“Have you lost your mind?” he asked.

Roberts’ mouth opened and shut as though he were in rarefied air. Then he sat down again and looked at his hand which was still shaking.

“Martin,” he whispered, “I’m frightened.”

“I’m not astonished at that.” Martin sat up. “Roberts!” he cried earnestly. “It’s imperative that you get your thoughts out of this channel!”

“There _is_ no other channel,” interrupted the adviser. “I’m humiliated, degraded—but there is no other channel.”

“Very well,” said Martin. “I won’t try to persuade you to think differently then. But I do ask you to give me the real purpose of this call.”

“I came to warn you.”

“Against Carol, or yourself?”

Roberts did not answer. His face was set and all the color had drained out of it.

Martin observed him closely.

“You’ve had some bad nights, my friend.”

The adviser wiped his forehead.

“Yes. Bad nights. That I should live—for this!” He looked about him wildly.

Martin sat up straighter.

“Overlook the This, my mad companion, and look for That!”[4]

Roberts stared at him with amazement rising to horror.

“Destroyer of words!” he said. “My God! You destroyer of sand and clay and rock that make the brilliant hills!”

“Yes. Destroyer.” Martin nodded in agreement.

Roberts got up, holding unsteadily to the arm of the chair.

“I’ll leave you to your destiny!” he cried with savage vehemence.

“Unless it’s interwoven,” answered Martin coldly.

The adviser’s eyes grew bright as though with fever.

“Again, your hatred in your words.”

Martin nodded once more.

“That’s right.”

“What will you do if I don’t permit you——” Roberts stopped.

“Propose something,” commanded Martin, rising.

“I do.” The adviser picked up his stick and walked uncertainly toward the door. As he turned, he seemed to be smiling. “I _have_ proposed something.”

With an easy stride Martin went to him. He took the stick from his hand and placed it against the wall. He reached for the door and closed it. Deliberately, he caught Roberts by the waist and bent him backwards until he fell. Then he poured one bitter kiss after another—his teeth cutting the adviser’s tender lips and cheeks, his sweat falling like molecules of light.

Roberts screamed and turned his face away.

_CHAPTER XXIII_

One quiet evening Deane and Martin walked down to a street Exhibit in the Village. Since Roberts’ visit to Martin, Deane had felt a melancholy restlessness about the man she loved; and on this evening, with small stationary clouds in the west prolonging the summer twilight, she tried with careful intrigue to bring him back again.

They walked the long way—past odd, forsaken streets; past streets with checkered, foreign signs; past junk shops, curio shops; past streets where old furniture, silverware and books were on display within the dusty, ill-kept windows; past lending libraries; past a little half-street with quiet, mysterious houses; past streets that wandered helplessly about until, faced with some busy thoroughfare, they paused abruptly, bewildered, and of necessity came to their end. There was one street built like a dagger, with a single row of trees across it for its hilt. There were crooked streets, dirty streets, smart streets; streets attempting to be gay and failing miserably; streets falling over themselves; scrambled streets; streets running pell-mell at last into Greenwich Square.

The Exhibit centered around Eighth Street and meandered, after various aimless shambles, along MacDougal Street and into the somewhat limited security of MacDougal Alley. Countless easels which held oils or studies in crayon, finished or unfinished, were scattered about the sidewalks. Odd bits of craftsmanship hung on the walls of buildings or were placed for sale on the curbs. Caricaturists and cut-out artists in their batik smocks were hawking their talents to the crowd, not with the loud, raucous voices of sideshow barkers at a fair, but with proud and careful gestures, and an occasional remark about art in general which most of the crowd took seriously.

At the end of MacDougal Alley a hard, slim man who looked like Popeye was daubing wildly at his canvas. Martin grinned and pulled Deane back by her elbow, stopping her suddenly.

“Look at that old boy,” he said under his breath, all his melancholy abstraction leaving him in an instant. “He’s mad as a hatter, and dreaming of a Dutch ship he took one time out of Sumatra. See, honey?” Martin grew more excited and pointed to the painting. “She’s built like a sabot—equally stable in the North Sea or the South Pacific. The Hollanders knew how!” He nodded wisely. “By God! I have a little of their blood in my own veins,” he continued with pride. “The painting’s bad. But the thing’s there, all right. The man has memories.” He jigged Deane’s arm again. “I’m going to tell the old chap I’m a steamship man. Watch him blow up. _He_ never sailed under anything but canvas.”

Deane grew concerned.

“Don’t make him angry, Martin,” she said, holding back.

“I won’t. Come on, darling,” and pulling her after him, he walked up casually behind the old seaman.

“Ah!” said Martin, as though speaking to Deane, “_there’s_ a fine ship!”

“Ye don’t know her stem from her stern,” said the painter, turning round to observe the speaker, then dabbing a ferocious spot of sea under his ship’s bow.

“She’s beautiful,” insisted Martin. “That is—she would be, if she had just a touch of steam.” He paused for a second. “There’s nothing like steam in a calm, or if you need a head in the wind.”

The brush dropped out of the painter’s hand and his face turned the color of brick.

“Steam!” he snorted. “_I_ went round the Horn with just me hat spread, boy!” He picked up his brush, wiped it carefully and jabbed at the canvas again. “I took me own ship round the Cape durin’ a gale! There was less time than you’ll get in your liner—and it gave me a belly at fifty _you’ll_ never see at thirty!”

Martin nodded.

“Canvas had its points, all right,” he agreed.

“Steam!” repeated the old master scornfully, not in the least mollified, and spat upon the ground.

“Well,” persisted Martin, “I wish I could have tried your square-riggers. I never quite trusted steam, myself.” His voice sounded a little regretful.

The old master looked at him, suspicion in his eyes. Suddenly he stepped nearer and brought his face up close to Martin’s.

“Do ye know where the Scylla Deeps be?” he asked mysteriously.

“A sea no sailor has found, sir,” answered Martin.

The old master continued to peer at him with mistrust.

“Where did me best rope hang, boy?”

“From the yardarm, sir.” Martin gave him a slow smile. “And it’s not all that hung from there, sir,” he added, knowingly.

The master’s face turned into a series of amused lines and crevices. He grabbed Martin’s arm and his white lips puckered into laughter.

“If I could’ve had ye as cabin boy, me lad, ye might’ve made a sailor!—But no more steamship gab!” he warned, shaking his finger. He turned once more to the painting. “Now ain’t she a beauty?” He pointed with pride to the ship and over his ravaged face came a sorrowful and faraway expression. “She was trim as a herring,” he said, so low they could scarcely hear. “Trim as a herring, me boy.”

Martin spoke soberly, with an infinite respect.

“She was, sir. And she is. I’m glad you’re bringing her alive.”

The old master stared at him. His eyes seemed flaked with salt and he brushed one rough hand across them.

Martin took Deane’s arm once more.

“Good-by, sir. A good trip, sir,” he said, pulling Deane along. But the old master just kept staring as the two walked away.

“Why did he look like that?” Deane whispered, her own eyes full of tears.

“That ship went down, honey—and the master, also,” answered Martin.

On the next corner, standing in an erect, unnatural posture, was a man with a full red beard. In one hand the man held a comb which occasionally he used on his chin with a gesture at once contemptuous and desperate. In the other hand there was a ragged paper upon which something was written—and this, he wore as though it were a part of him. When any passed too close he would draw back the manuscript, hastily covering the words, the beer stains and perhaps tears with his palm. His bold chin under its red blanket would jut angrily; he would hunch his shoulders, and his eyes, which were a little blurred, would narrow in agony and hatred. Martin, ashamed for all mankind that it had shamed this artist and his work, walked by with an impassive glance, understanding full well the torment of beauty which must be held within itself. But the man, sensing some kinship within Martin, or feeling some belligerent contempt, held out to him the sheaf of paper containing all the golden words born of himself in adoration, hunger and distrust. His speech was rapid, barely articulate.

“Twenty-five cents, _sir_?” he called out mockingly. “A block of my heart for twenty-five cents!”

Deane pressed against Martin and he knew that she was frightened. He tried, without speaking, to tell her not to be, and walked on with a strolling deliberation, eyes ahead without expression, minimizing as far as possible the high chain of laughter behind them. He visualized the rotten teeth—the long hysteria——

And then they came upon a flower man, a small Sicilian with an olive skin and a charming, wistful face. He was standing by his little cart, his hands down by his side as though in a mild passion with his lot among the flowers. There were cornflowers and mignonette; crisp French marigolds and early cosmos. Deane made her choice.

“Buy me the marigolds,” she asked of Martin. “You remember?—they were your first gift to me.”

The little olive gentleman bowed and smiled; and carefully selecting the freshest marigolds from his stock, twisted a strip of tinfoil around their stems before handing them to Deane.

Shortly after they left him, Deane looked back. He was standing by his little cart, still smiling, his hands down by his side in gentle obsequiousness.

Touched deeply by this profound and infinite patience, Deane thought of all the things she had seen that day—one man with a phantom ship, one with a poem, and one—She glanced sideways at Martin, and suddenly, unnoticed by him, the tiny bunch of marigolds which she was clutching fell from her grasp....

Later, in the soft candlelight within the apartment, Martin sat on the arm of Deane’s chair, quietly twisting the ring upon his finger. The small red stone on its field of black looked at him speculatively. The tender perception which had been Deane’s all that evening now gave way to a definite and fearful prescience.

“What is it, darling?” she asked, for Martin had not spoken in some time.

“I love you,” he said simply.

“I love you, too. But what disturbs you, Martin?”

He avoided her eyes.

“It was only a dream,” he said at last. “But it has worried me. I dreamt I died and found myself at the crossroads of Heaven and Hell—there to make my decision as to which path I should walk.”

“What? A dream—worry you?” Deane sighed with relief and ran her hand across his cheek. Then she arose and led him to the divan. One by one the candles had gone out and like a specter, the pallid light of the full summer moon crept into the apartment. “Go on, my darling,” she whispered, half closing her eyes and stretching luxuriously against him.

“I died,” he repeated. “And I found myself at the crossroads of Heaven and Hell. I was undecided as to which road to take. Then suddenly I knew the answer. I knew they diverged only for a time.”

“What do you mean?” In Deane’s voice was a note of dismay.

“I knew that whichever road I took, it would end in pain.”

“Oh, no!”

“Yes, I knew that the end would be the same; so, impudently, I took the road marked HEAVEN. I walked for days among winding mountain paths. Giant trees sang to me in the wind, and the air was fragrant with pine and wild rose. Little creeks ran past me, twisting over mossy rocks; and there were narrow falls of water spinning white and silver. In shadowy places where the water eddied dark green and gold, I stopped to rest and drink. A long time I walked through this country. By day, the sun struck blindly through the limbs of trees; and at night, a moon showed. Then I came to a valley where I saw broad fields of grain, shining yellow, and checkerboards of green pasture and plowed field. I was confused by the intermittent sound of bells which rang through the air.

“On one block of green pasture there was a great multitude. I went down the trail, leaving the forest behind, and descended into the lowland. As I approached the congregation, I saw to my amazement that they were all children. I wondered at their quietness. They were so silent and unmoving that I would have thought them dead had it not been that they were facing me, a sweet, desperate expression on their faces. The macabre quality in these little ones gave me an unpleasant thrill. No murmur sounded from this congress of children—no movement of arm, knee or head.

“Full of a presentiment of evil, I walked closer and looked down into their eyes. Row after row of these spectral organisms were before me, reaching, it seemed, to the horizon. Thousands of bright, curly heads shone faintly in the haze of the sun. Their wide eyes, blue or brown, were directed at me.

“My mouth was hot. I tried to smile.

“‘Have I reached Heaven?’ I asked them.

“The answer seemed to be projected from a thousand throats, but it reached my ears as a whisper. This tired wind, blowing so, held only compassion. It was unbearable. And it said—‘We love you.’”

Martin’s face became severe and rigid as he told this.

“Go on, Martin,” Deane urged.

“I can’t.”

“It was a dream, Martin. Finish the dream.”

“It was destiny!” he cried. “I murdered ten thousand innocents! I asked them if I was in Heaven, and they answered that they loved me. To wheedle, to coax a smile into their weakening, passive faces, I asked a question....

“They told me that they loved me,” Martin repeated tiredly, and once more, Deane felt a prescience of terror.

“I wanted to raise my hand,” Martin went on. “I wanted to shout, to jump into the air, to sing a song—anything to dissipate the irrevocable impression of death that carved each face into the appearance of a dying flower.

“I was desperate and I felt that I was wrong.

“‘Children,’ I said, ‘I have hurt you. Tell me the poison, the action, or the mood that has brought you this pain.’

“I can’t explain how they looked. It wasn’t sadness, nor was it condemnation. It was a death’s joke and I was horrified. Again the wind of their minds moved restlessly in my ears.

“‘Pain you prophesied,’ it said.

“‘It was a prophecy of pain for myself,’ I told them. ‘I didn’t mean to condemn you.’

“This time,” said Martin, “there was no answer; no audible answer. But for the first time the children moved, dropping gently on their knees. They lowered their eyelids, accentuating the pallor of their faces.

“I cried out to them. I begged their forgiveness. I cursed myself, tore open my shirt and looked for a weapon, reasoning that my death would bring life to the children.”

As Martin said this, he caught his breath and projected a swift pain into the woman. Deane held him gladly—drawing in his venom—half fainting.

But Martin, pressing deeper into his mind, continued furiously.

“At each of my gestures—at each syllable, the children sank closer to the grass. Their eyes closed with precision until only the fringe of lash showed where the eyes had been. Watching this slow death of thousands, I stopped speaking and stood rigid, my jaws locked. I glared at them. I saw each movement become fainter until each tortured flower-face lay on the ground, their chins propped up to me. Their cheeks were like wilted petals, their white, reedy arms were extended above them, and each child-finger was pointed toward me.”

Martin stopped speaking. Deane lay quiet within his arms. She felt his face against her throat, felt her own arms pinioned and her agony intensified. Compassionately she kissed the thick perspiration from his forehead.

_CHAPTER XXIV_

Martin pushed his chair away from the linotype, waiting for copy. He leaned back and spoke to Rio who was sitting on the windowsill behind him.

“Smell that sulphur?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s from the plant across the way. Gets sweet about this time every night. You’ve probably noticed it before.”

“It don’t make no difference,” said Rio. “This is one hell of a place any way you look at it. Noise and dirt.” He spat out the window.

Martin yawned and stretched in his chair, but made no answer.

“It ain’t no place for me,” continued Rio grimly. “Some of the boys look restless. Is it the strike you’re worryin’ about?”

“The strike may not come off, Rio. There’s always a lot of talk. And if it does, it’s no worse than the waterfront.”

“Well, anyway, I’m goin’ out for a smoke.” Rio walked into the little hallway, calling back over the banisters to Martin to find out how much longer he had to wait.

Martin glanced at his watch.

“I’ll be through in twenty minutes,” he said. “We can stop down the street for a nightcap.”

“I’ll be outside,” Rio mumbled, and went on down the stairs.

He was sitting on the steps when Martin joined him. His huge frame filled the doorway and as he arose lazily, Martin wondered, as he had wondered many times before, at the harmony of his movements.

Far beyond the reaches of the sulphur fumes, the soft tread of these men, accustomed as they were to the intricate, woven fabric of the sea, made scarcely a sound in the night.

Rio sniffed.

“New York,” he said, as they walked along. “It smells different this time of year.”

And Martin, through his friend, felt a definite, new motion in the color of the air—a deliberate music brought by the full season. In both retrospect and in the moment, Martin watched Huysmans, that frightened older brother, break the skyline into small patches of dim lights between the darkened buildings.

So still was the atmosphere that the two friends felt annoyed at the sight of a lighted tavern. But they stopped in for a drink nevertheless, then went on slowly toward Martin’s rooming house.

“Say, Martin,” said Rio finally. “I been thinkin’ over that act you pulled with Roberts. I don’t get it.” He laughed. “It’s funny, though.”

“It really wasn’t an act,” replied Martin.

Rio looked at him through the darkness.

“You mean——”

“Good Lord, no!” interrupted Martin. “I’ll admit, it’s difficult to understand—even for me. But the way he stood, the way he smiled, and his new threat (remember, he’s carried them out before!) made me break loose. I kept thinking, as I looked at him, that he’d always asked me for something that he didn’t want. When I called him, I must have known he wasn’t real. For when I pretended a consummation he was frightened and ashamed.”

Rio shook his head.

“You’re a brave lad. It makes me sick to think about it.”

Martin’s tone was peculiar.

“I was poisonous,” he said.

Rio looked at him again and shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I guess it cured him.”

Martin thought a moment.

“I don’t know. I suppose that when it comes down to it I don’t understand him at all.... By the way, Rio, what made him take such a dislike to you?”

“Nothin’ much. I asked him about you once and when I found out he lied, I shook him up.” Rio closed his fist in the dark. “I wish I’d shook ’im harder now,” he added, half under his breath.

“Damn it! That’s the pay-off!” said Martin angrily.

Rio turned to him.

“If you mean you’re fed up messin’ with this queer outfit, I’m with you.” He began to walk more rapidly. “I wish to God I was back——”

Martin interrupted.

“I know. Sometimes I wish we were at sea again.”

“What about Deane?” asked Rio.

Martin’s voice was as even as his steps.

“I wouldn’t mention her name, Rio,” he said. “We never think about a little thing like that the first time.” His voice was trembling now. “But I wouldn’t ever see her, or mention her name again.”

They walked along Eighth Street without speaking for a few blocks until Rio turned to his friend.

“Is that all you’re goin’ to say?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m a miserable bastard, Martin. I wish I was in Santa de Marina. By God!—I think I’ll go.”

Rio sounded so unusually plaintive that Martin had to laugh.

“I don’t blame you. Why don’t you return to the family? Your money won’t last them forever and you could make out all right down there.”

They had reached Washington Square and were about to turn down Martin’s street when Rio stopped him.

“Let’s go in and sit down for awhile, buddy. There’s a few things I’d like to ask you.”

Martin walked beside him until they came to the large circular rim of the fountain. They sat down on the low concrete wall and Rio put out his cigarette, grinding it under his heel on the pavement. It seemed difficult for him to speak.

“Y’know,” he said, finally, “I been around more than most men. I been places and seen funny practices, and ugly ones, among the heathen. And I know Berlin better’n I do New York. The same goes for a few other cities. I thought I’d scraped most people and most happenin’s. Then I had the luck of bumpin’ into you.”

“Good, or bad?” asked Martin.

“Bad, I guess, or I’d have missed it.”

“Why bad?”

“Well, because I had a few ideas that I believed in. Somehow, you’ve managed to mess ’em up.”

“That’s all right,” said Martin, emphasizing his words with a quick movement of his hand. “If you were on a weak foundation you shouldn’t mind having your opinions reversed. If you had a strong one I couldn’t change it.”

“It ain’t one or the other,” said Rio in disgust. “You can take an idea, right or wrong, and squeeze it like butter.” His tone grew deeper and Martin felt that he was frowning in the semi-darkness. “I’m goin’ to ask you a question, Martin. Don’t get sore; and I don’t mean it hard. But I got to know. We’ve kidded each other a lot since we met. You stood by me—” Rio’s voice faltered. He swallowed and stopped for a moment. Martin could hear his heavy breathing.

“Get rid of it, Rio,” he said.

“It’s god-damned crazy,” said Rio, swearing to hide his embarrassment. “But listen, Martin. Are you——”

Martin half closed his eyes.

“Oh,” he thought. He watched his friend struggling through this viscous medium in a painful attempt to absorb most of its ugliness himself. But he gave the man no clue, no help. He merely closed his eyes tighter and listened.

“Are you—” continued Rio. Then, his voice stronger and more demanding, “Are you a god-damned fairy with your god-damned eyes and the way you look at people? You looked queer in that draggy dress at the party, and you acted queer.” Rio hesitated. “Oh, I know you took care of me afterward. But when I seen you leanin’ on the piano like a girl, I went crazy. If you’re a queen, tell me!” His voice had become so husky that he could scarcely speak. “And if you ain’t—what are you? Let me know. Let me know damned fast!” He was breathing still harder and Martin could hear his hands rubbing against the concrete.

He slipped off the side of the fountain and faced Rio. In the quiet night, without a moon, the open stars drew their icy shine across his eyes. He lit a cigarette and in the brief flare, Rio could see the drawn lips, the contemptuous silhouette and the sharp lines in his face.

“Time doesn’t count, Rio. Kindly don’t be in a hurry.” Martin spoke softly. “And remember, I’m talking about myself and not you, so don’t be anxious. You’ve asked me a question in your manner, and I’ll answer it in your manner, Rio. I am.”

“Damn you, you’re not!” Rio cried out.

“Then it’s for you to judge.”

“I don’t judge nothin’, Martin,” said Rio, standing and facing him. “But if you ain’t, why d’you hang around them?”

“‘Them’?” asked Martin, with a bleak smile. “If you could see yourself standing there, frightened of yourself, frightened of me, frightened of symbols——”

“I tell you, I’m not like that!” interrupted Rio, his hands back of him.

“Perhaps you are,” said Martin quietly.

“Clear that up.” Rio was leaning slightly forward in dignified, yet dangerously immobile restraint. “Clear that up fast.”

Martin spoke earnestly, without resentment.

“Before you ever ask another man that question, Rio, go to the mirror and ask it of yourself. Perhaps the answer will be—‘thou, too’!”

Rio kept the same tense attitude.

“You mean _I_ am?” he asked slowly. “You better explain it well this time. Show me your point.”

Martin looked at him indifferently.

“You asked me, didn’t you, if I was queer; and although you’re deathly afraid of it yourself, you hold such people in contempt. Did you think I was going to deny it as though it were intrinsically a shameful thing?”

“You say it ain’t shameful?” said Rio, not changing his position.

“It exists,” went on Martin calmly. “It’s part of life. It has its particular and its important position in the world. It has its stages and its stratas. Thus it is, Rio—this force was created.”

“Created for what?” demanded Rio. “For nightmares?” He wiped away the sweat from his forehead.

“No,” said Martin. “Created for balance.”

“‘Balance,’ hell!—those upside down bastards?”

“I didn’t say they were balanced. I don’t know that, because I don’t know where the average begins or ends. I said they were created for balance. A necessary people forming a resilient salient between the rigidity of the sexes.”

“I don’t see it,” said Rio heavily.

“Don’t bother, then,” said Martin. “And don’t make an issue of it. I’ve looked at Carol and seen the reason, the essential purpose of his destiny.”

“Go on,” said Rio.

“And I’ve looked at Drew,” Martin continued. “He made me wonder what the word ‘normal’ meant.”

“God, you’re crazy,” whispered Rio.

“I’ve looked at Roberts,” confessed Martin, “until his helpless, sick desire forced me into desperation, and I tasted the germ of his too bright mouth.”

“God!” repeated Rio, horrified.

“And I’ve looked at you,” went on Martin.

“Yeah?” breathed Rio, straining forward.

“And I became less blind.”

Rio’s heavy shoe scraped the pavement.

“And I’ve looked at myself,” said Martin, lifting his voice. And still more firmly, “I’ve looked at all of us and found us all so different—and yet so much the same.”

“Holy Christ,” said Rio softly.

“Aye,” Martin nodded. “Holy Christ.”

They left the park and walked on silently, each thinking more of the other’s thoughts than of his own. A wind from the south, carrying a burned, sulphurous cloud, quickly hid the stars and descended until even the solitary street lamps were darkened, became ominous and were worse than none at all. It muffled the occasional sounds of late night and was as forbidding as the attitude of these two silent men; for except themselves, the streets were deserted, and their presence only accentuated the desolation. It was a moment of such stillness that even nature becomes disturbed and ultimately furious, and sharply moving her wing, brings down a sudden and a violent sound.

A block away from Martin’s room an ambulance rushed past them, its siren full and piercing. It drew up quickly before the house and an ambulance doctor with white cap and trousers bent over a man who was lying on the curb. A thin group of spectators had gathered. They were quiet, looking on curiously. Martin’s landlady was standing by, shivering and crying. Martin went to her and touched her arm.

“What is it, Mrs. O’Brien?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Mr. Devaud,” sobbed the woman. “I heard a noise. I guess it was a shot. So I looked out the window and there he was.”

Martin hurried back to Rio.

“What does it look like?” he asked nervously. “I can’t see.”

Rio struck a match.

“I dunno. He can’t get no pulse.”

The doctor was still kneeling between them and the figure. At last, he moved to one side and opened the man’s shirt, throwing a point of light on a small, discolored spot under the heart. The man’s face was in bas-relief. But above the wound, in a broken curve, lay a delicate, golden necklace....

Martin leaned over swiftly and started to speak; but Rio stepped in front of him.

“The guy’s dead, eh, Doc?” he asked solicitously, glaring at Martin all the while over his shoulder.

“Get back,” said the doctor brusquely, to the crowd. Then he called out to the driver. “Come on, Jim. Lend a hand.”

Rio took Martin by the arm and they walked up the steps quickly.

“You god-damned fool,” Rio kept whispering to him. “You god-damned fool. Keep your god-damned mouth shut.”

In Martin’s room they sat down and faced each other. Rio continued to swear at him.

“So there you are,” he said mockingly. “Carol’s knocked off and you want to butt in.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut up!” said Martin miserably. Then seeing the expression on Rio’s face, he went over to him and put his hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t mean that, Rio. I know well enough you saved me a lot of trouble out there. I’m just trying to figure it out.”

“Don’t be so dumb,” said Rio, and put his cap on backwards.

“Yes. It must have been Roberts. I suppose that’s what he meant when he said he had proposed something. I knew it. I was slow. Damn him. Why?”

“Why not? Carol was in his way,” said Rio philosophically.

Martin stood up.

“Rio!” He spoke swiftly. His voice was harsh and a terrible light burned in his eyes.

“Take it easy,” Rio answered calmly. “He won’t hurt Deane to-night. He’s weak, some ways. This one job’s enough for his stomach this time. He’s in bed—cracked up. Puking his guts out. But later, I dunno.” Rio was growing thoughtful.

“How did he get away with this, Rio?”

“He’s a clever son-of-a-bitch.”

“Clever?” repeated Martin. “I wonder.” He moved toward the door. “Rio, I’m going to see him.”

Rio went to his friend and held his arm.

“Don’t stick your chin out, Martin,” he said earnestly. “Maybe I got an idea myself.” He righted his cap, and without further explanation left the room.

Martin pulled up the rocker in front of his small radio which he turned on softly. There, his head in his hands, he sat and rocked until morning. Then he took a train uptown to Deane’s.

_CHAPTER XXV_

Roberts woke up with a sticky feeling in his mouth. He felt his wrist. It was still throbbing. With difficulty he repressed a sudden panic brought about by his full consciousness of this last and most horrible link forged in the confused entries of his life. He got up, put his feet in a pair of slippers and went to the mirror. He stuck out his tongue and looked at it carefully. Walking away, he stopped suddenly and glanced over his shoulder at himself. Then he rang for his breakfast and went into the bathroom.

Although he was accustomed to this pale Orient, an atmosphere of mauve with the suggestion of a darker tone enhanced by lights, direct and indirect, it seemed to stimulate him now as though it were a new experience. He took a crystal flagon from its glass shelf and shook the bottle slightly, watching the opalescent liquid as hungrily as though he were going to drink it. Removing the stopper, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, shivering; and as an afterthought, carefully shook two drops upon his fingers and rubbed them into his temples. The astonishing scent filled the bathroom and Roberts leaned against the wall as the odor of stable frost arose about him. Slowly, he removed his pajamas, white as his skin, and let them fall around his feet. The warm water from the shower sprayed off his head. He stuck out his tongue again and swallowed a little of the water. It tasted salty and he spat out what was left. After a careless shave he put on a dressing gown of deep red corded silk, and staring vacantly, sat down in front of the coffee table in his living room.

The boy knocked and entered with his breakfast.

“My paper?” Roberts looked up inquiringly.

“Yes, sir. It’s on your tray, sir,” answered the boy.

“That’s right, my lad. Always a paper with one’s eggs.” The adviser laughed sententiously.

The boy put down the tray.

“Will that be all, sir?”

Roberts looked up again, severely.

“Is that all? Most certainly. Do I ever digress from this routine?”

“No, sir,” said the boy and left.

Roberts mused, his lips spasmodically making little ticking sounds.

“Is that all? What else could he want? The scamp—he acted as if he knew something. A pretty lot _he_ could know—or anybody, for that matter.” The adviser looked around the room, smiling shrewdly. There was a single scarlet geranium on his tray. He picked it up with a caress and held it briefly under his nose before he tore off the petals. Then he looked at his eggs.

“Cold, as usual,” he said bitterly. “And what’s this?—a spot?” He put his spoon into the eggs. “The nucleus, no doubt. Good heavens!—does fertilization confront me even in my breakfast?” He tried to control his anger and nibbled at a piece of bacon and toast. The hot, black coffee he drank greedily.

A short article at the bottom of the front page of his paper attracted his attention. He read through it swiftly. A murder in Greenwich Village. He smiled again, this time his right eye winking slightly.

“Definitely a bad neighborhood, Mrs. Twitchett,” he said amiably. “People who go down there must expect such things, my dear.” Then, with a start, he brought himself up. “You ass!” He spoke harshly to himself. “You giggling, impossible hermaphrodite! Hush!” But unable to repress his amusement he laughed aloud, pressing his finger to his lips secretively. After awhile he picked up the paper again. “What was the name? ... Carol?... Yes, Carol Stevens. A young chap, so the papers say. But he’ll be a long time down there. It will bring maturity.... Unfortunately, he might be connected with Martin Devaud? That would be scandalous.” Before the smile reappeared on Roberts’ face he looked at the article once more. Certainly, it would not involve himself. Being merely decent to a homespun lad like that. There couldn’t be any connection there.... He spoke aloud again. “There isn’t any connection, you bloated bunch of rags! You confounded, grayish bunch of rags! This is the time of year to remain in one’s own department.”

He went to the desk and took a sheet of paper. Meticulously he wrote:

To the Police:

Using a small caliber automatic and under the pretense of
friendship I approached and shot Carol Stevens. The motive was
jealousy.

Signed:

William Roberts.

He permitted a slight smile. Then, taking a box of matches out of his pocket he struck one and lit a corner of the paper. After the note had burned he dropped the ashes into the wastebasket.

He took another piece of paper and wrote the same message, stood up and looked at it from a distance, taking his eyes away from it at intervals, for a second at a time. Then he picked up the paper, and waving it around, walked to the other end of the room. After a few moments he walked back, humming, and slowly burned it, too.

Again he wrote the message. This time he left the room. A moment later his face appeared in the doorway. It was tense as he walked rapidly to the desk. But when he saw the message, undisturbed, he smiled again. He picked it up, crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room. Leaping after it and retrieving it with a desperate, sweeping motion, he unrolled it with quivering fingers. Hastily he read the words and again the satisfied smile lessened the tension on his face. Then he rolled the paper once more and walked to the inside wall. He stood with his back to the room for a long time, at last throwing the wadded note as far over his shoulder as he could, one hand covering his eyes. Turning around, he looked on the floor. The paper was not there. He began to walk back and forth swiftly, looking on the divan, on the chairs. The message was not to be seen. Finally he stopped in the center of the room, a curiously stupid expression on his face. He felt slightly dizzy and the room seemed to be turning. He walked hesitatingly to a chair, his titubation increasing. Leaning over the chair, he looked at the room from this angle. The paper had apparently vanished. He felt his pulse and was alarmed by its rapid beat. In an attitude of half-fear, half-anger, he went hurriedly over the room again, lifting the pillows from the divan and from the chairs. Then he went to a mirror and looked at himself. The pupils of his eyes were large and startling, set in a pale, grayish face lined with anxiety. Panic-stricken, he ran to his clothescloset and took down another dressing robe. This he hung over the mirror in the living room. Animal-like, he fell to his knees, and crawling around the floor, peered under the fringe of the rug. His shoulder bumped against a chair and he tipped it over angrily. His movements became more and more frenzied. At last each article had been closely inspected, and still there was no message. He ran to the door and locked it securely. Suddenly, he looked at the window. It was open. He drew his hand across his forehead which was covered with perspiration. His knees trembled. He sat down abruptly, the upset furniture swaying around him.

Within this desperate sense of fear he quickly regained his balance. He went to the buffet and drank a small brandy. Unsteadily, but seriously, he dressed. He started to leave the room, hesitated, and as an afterthought went to the window. He leaned out and looked down at the alley-like space between the buildings. Unable to distinguish anything, he closed the window, went out into the hall and rang for the elevator.

Downstairs, he crossed the court, climbed over a low fence and walked down the space under his window. One crumpled white paper drew his attention, but it was an empty cigarette package. Toward the sidewalk he saw another wadded paper. People were passing close by and he picked it up self-consciously, not daring to hope that it was the one he wanted. Walking back to the court he opened it feverishly. His eye caught the first line. It said, “To the Police:—” He read no further, but jammed the note hastily, though carefully, into his pocket and folded his hand around it.

In his apartment, came the reaction. He lay on his back on the upset divan, his hand still gripped around the paper, and wept softly and bitterly. When he had stopped shaking he went to the desk, smoothed out the paper and read it, a definite horror on his face. Then anger relieved his fear and he struck the note repeatedly with his fist. Throwing it into the metal wastebasket, he tossed burning matches after it until the confessional was alight with flames. Methodically he straightened the room and took the robe from the mirror. Looking into the glass, he held out his hand and with amazing swiftness struck the side of his face.

Later, in the bathroom, he saw with satisfaction the purple outline of his fingers on his cheek.

_CHAPTER XXVI_

Deane answered the telephone nervously. A voice, thin and unsteady, came over the wire.

“Deane? This is Roberts.”

With difficulty Deane restrained a sudden feeling of panic.

The adviser spoke quickly, without waiting for her acknowledgment.

“This is rather unusual, but I assure you the situation is imperative enough to justify its obvious lack of convention.”

Deane’s anxiety increased.

“What situation, Roberts?” she asked.

“A situation so delicate that its discussion by phone is impossible. Won’t you do me the kindness to have dinner with me?” Roberts’ voice had taken on a strange, beseeching quality.

Thoroughly frightened by the implication of drama, Deane tried to remember that she had once been attracted by his intelligence, amused at his suavity. She accepted his invitation.

What could he want of her? She was glad that Martin had gone home. He would never let her meet Roberts if he knew. She recalled how frightfully upset Martin had been that morning.

While she was dressing she kept wondering what urgency had prompted the adviser to contact her so quickly after the tragedy. Surely no guilty man would do such a thing. Perhaps Martin and Rio were wrong. Perhaps Roberts wanted to help.... Did he know about that picture of Martin the police had found in Carol’s pocket? Thank God, Martin had had an alibi. Or—did alibis really count!... Poor Carol! Was she responsible for his death? It was true that she had introduced him into this ill-assorted group of men who, more experienced in the conflicting currents of human emotion, could anticipate and often avoid such danger. She remembered little phrases and gestures of Carol which in retrospect seemed touching and child-like. She remembered the day she had gone to lunch with him—his earnest, immature face as he reflected the thoughts and effusions of this man whom she was meeting. What blindness of hers that she had not foreseen an approximate outcome of this relationship! Deane’s eyes were full of tears. She felt the tremendous sorrow of the immaculate woman for the spikes and chains which bind humanity’s certified incompetents. Too, for herself, there were tears of indignation—resentment over being drawn into this formidable unity. She finished dressing and hurried uptown.

* * * * *

In the restaurant, Roberts leaned slightly forward, over the table, his hands together.

“Deane,” he said, “I didn’t ask you to meet me because of Carol’s tragedy. The child was drawn into a significantly dangerous vortex. But it is about this uncompromising whirlpool itself, which may engulf others whom I love, that I want to speak. There is something here—some sinister thing about us that is in deadly earnest. Do you sense it, Deane?”

“Yes, Roberts. Particularly now.”

“Martin,” continued the adviser, “does not appreciate the undercurrent of this danger. It is for this reason—for this one reason I begged you to see me.”

“Yes,” Deane repeated, feeling her skin tighten as it does under a great and hopeless fear.

“I have but one thought in mind—” Roberts proceeded, “Martin’s future. His temperament is one that will not adjust itself to the inevitable.”

Deane’s hand closed over her bag. A swift feeling of revulsion changed as quickly to one of anger.

“The inevitable?” she asked, controlling her voice.

“Yes,” said Roberts. “The inevitable routine of this world. I have it on good authority that he is about to lose his job at Miller’s Typographical. You know his history. He came to me a transient—a common seaman. I found him a good job. I made contacts for him in this respect which he used, or rather abused, with an amazing recklessness. I do not understand his lack of appreciation. But these things are unimportant. Regardless of his inconsideration, I feel that there is definitely something worth saving.”

“That’s good of you, Roberts,” said Deane, inclining her head a little, the large hat shading her eyes. “Martin would be pleased to know that you consider his regeneration a possibility.”

Roberts’ lips tightened at her irony. His fingers moved constantly over the white tablecloth, touching a cup—a spoon——

“I appeal to you, Deane,” he said finally. “I recognize your influence over him.”

She remained silent.

“Have you no answer?” he asked.

“Of course not.” Deane’s moist, red lips closed tightly.

Roberts picked up a spoon and tapped it nervously on the table.

“I have always respected your antagonism, Deane, but I am somewhat unprepared, just now, to face a personal issue. By coöperating with me, I feel that we can bring about some satisfactory adjustment on the part of Martin that will give him success and happiness.” The adviser waited, quiet and intent.

Deane’s eyes paled, the color fading into clearness. She looked at Roberts abstractedly. To her it seemed that an unhealthy whiteness moved now under his skin. His handsome face seemed trembling, disintegrating and forming anew, misshapen under the pressure of his mind. His cheeks appeared alive with white nerve roots, moving uncertainly, like microscopic serpents. The lens of Deane’s eyes penetrated through flesh into the dark coils of blood, visualizing curiously the spiraling, pallid germ.

Roberts jerked in his chair. He leaned sideways, holding to the table. His cuff brushed a tumbler and a little of the water spilled upon the cloth.

“Deane!” He spoke sharply. “What are you looking at?”

Her eyes grew deeper, lost their transparency.

“I was wondering.”

Roberts’ voice trembled. His words were insecure.

“You were wondering.... You were wondering at what? What are you looking at?”

Deane took her eyes from him.

“Please go on, Roberts.”

He hesitated.

“I was saying—I was saying that you have a remarkable influence over Martin. Doubtless he has told you of our early misunderstanding—a misunderstanding based on the assumption that I was instrumental in having him fired. As an intelligent woman you are probably aware of the fact that he lost his position because he neglected his work. He is not incompetent, but his social program affected his efficiency.”

Deane spoke without looking at him.

“Do you mean that I caused Martin to lose his position?” Her lack of resentment, her cold, unemotional question disconcerted the adviser momentarily.

“Indeed not,” he answered. “Please believe that I have valued and approved his friendships for certain people. Martin tends toward introspection and celibacy. It is most important that he cultivate the social quality. That is why I was so astonished that he should, of a sudden, become so interested in what constitutes society.”

“I do not constitute society, Roberts. I love him.”

Roberts lifted his eyebrows.

“Deane,” he said anxiously, “I hope that you do not believe that I have intended to invade your personal affairs. I am concerned only with Martin’s development. I truly desire his life to be a complete and happy one.”

“Then please tell me what you want.” Deane made an uneasy little gesture.

For one lost moment, Roberts’ pallid cheeks were covered as though by the light of a beautiful, dark flame and he leaned across the table with a desperate, hopeless lust.

“You know what I want, Deane. _You have always known._” Now, he was breathless and the color left his face, leaving him whiter and more distraught than before.

Deane sat erect. There was more than anger in her expression. There was the fury and the cruelty of all her sex against what she believed to be the pitiful, crippled shade of themselves—against the mist of a forever-damned kinship which thought as woman thought, desired with woman’s desire, and still was mist, without substance, without gratification. Deane’s voice was barely audible.

“Never,” she whispered.

At her expression and her exclamation, Roberts wet his lips and trembled slightly in his chair, gazing at her as though in some enchantment.

“Never?” he asked, in a voice as low as her own, but with the quality of a protesting and bewildered child.