And now, tonight—what will be her answer, tonight?
“She dares not refuse me,” St. Goar says, unconsciously lifting the empty sherry glass to his lips. “For other women have betrayed me, and cheated me of the happiness of domesticity that is my due; and now it is time for Venus Aphrodite to reward me—as the goddess well knows.”
HIS NEW BLACK sateen top hat—his fine white gloves—his ebony cane with the smart gold-and-ivory handle; a quick glance at his pocket watch (ah, the hour is late!); and St. Goar is on his way.
Ever the considerate father, he calls out a hearty good night to his daughter Matilde; but sulky Matilde has locked herself away in her quarters, having refused her own invitations for the evening (one of them to the Grand Ball at the Philadelphia Academy of Music, for the benefit of the Children’s Charity Hospital), that she might bathe, and lie about en déshabillé, smoking her forbidden cigarettes and reading her forbidden newspapers: for the defiant young miss insists upon being knowledgeable in the follies of her time, profitless as such knowledge is.
Will you want a carriage, sir, asks the liveried doorman, on so cold and blustery an evening, sir?—but no: St. Goar prefers to walk: for there are grievances in his heart he would air, before meeting his beloved Eva.
“Aphrodite, hear me—it is time!”
For he’s been cruelly used in his life; aroused to passion, deceived by love, betrayed by the very women to whom he’d given his soul.
There was Arabella Jenkins—that sharp-eyed, sharp-witted beauty; the mother of two strapping boys, and what pride in her gift to him . . . except, in the end, there’s a bitter vagueness about the end, she’d abandoned him and run off with another man as in the lowest of stage comedies; there was Morna Hirshfield, the daughter of a man of God, and quite a demon in bed until madness overcame her . . . Millie’s fated mother. And there was poor sweet Sophie, the mother of Darian and Esther, whom he can’t allow himself to recall except as a name chiselled upon a granite grave marker in the cemetery that belongs to Abraham Licht. A fitting fate, to lie in “my” cemetery. Would they all were buried there, who’ve trampled my heart.
Strange how, once Venus Aphrodite departs from a woman, she becomes merely . . . a woman. You might glance at her in the street and look right through her, where once, inhabited by the radiant goddess, her face and being were a summons to your leaping, exalting heart; and the mere sound of her voice a provocation to joy.
And now, Eva.
Eva Clement-Stoddard, soon to become Eva Licht.
5.
Yet—it seems that Venus Aphrodite is toying with him another time, to St. Goar’s dismay and displeasure.
Can it be, the woman intends to refuse him a third, final time?
Near-midnight. The end of their evening. They’ve dined in the most intimate of Eva’s several dining rooms and they’ve attended a performance of The Mikado both have found “spirited, but mediocre” and now they’re uneasily alone together in Eva’s drawing room, which is dominated by a new purchase of hers: a landscape (quaint windmill, river, cloud-ribbed sky) by a seventeenth-century Dutch artist Jan Steen of whom St. Goar hasn’t heard except to know that, of late, in New York art-collecting circles, he’s become fashionable. Eva, like numerous other widowed wealthy ladies, follows the advice of the Manhattan art dealer Joseph Duveen, who reaps an enviable commission with each sale he makes; St. Goar hears of the man’s maneuvers with clenched jaws, and, even as he admires the painting—“Surpassingly beautiful, one of Steen’s very finest”—he vows inwardly that once they’re wed he, and not the wily Duveen, will supervise each of Eva’s art purchases. Indeed, he’s looking forward to a confrontation with the renowned Duveen, who dares to suggest to his wealthy, ignorant clients that they must prove themselves worthy of the art they purchase through him; they must work their way up to the Old Masters, for instance, by way of the Barbizon school, or the minor Flemish painters! The wealthy widow Mrs. Anna Emery Shrikesdale was allegedly told she might purchase a painting by Giorgione (which Duveen happened to have on hand), but not a Titian; Pierpont Morgan was told that he might buy, if he wished, a half dozen lesser works of Rembrandt, but was “not yet ready” for one of the monumental paintings; Henry Ford and Horace Dodge, residents of Detroit, Michigan (a city unworthy of great art), were not allowed, for years, to buy any of Duveen’s stock at all. (“Duveen must be a genius—for who, including even Abraham Licht, would have thought of that?” St. Goar sighs.) It’s a fact, that Henry Frick, the Pittsburgh millionaire, had to leave Pittsburgh for New York City, and build a mansion on Fifth Avenue, before Duveen would consent to sell him important paintings; and, not least, though Eva Clement-Stoddard is hardly a fool, she believes in Duveen unstintingly, and doesn’t doubt that, in his hands, her money is perfectly safe.
Finally Eva turns from the paintings, self-consciously, as if anticipating—with dread? with delight?—her admirer’s intention; and sits very still, as, in a voice that falters with emotion, Albert St. Goar tells her yet again that which she already knows—he loves her—adores her—respects her above all women—and wants to marry her as quickly as possible.
Eva sits staring at her beringed hands, too greatly moved to speak.
“I hope I haven’t upset you, Eva? But I must speak my heart. But if—if you wish—if I’m refused—I will never speak in such a way again; I will, in fact, leave Philadelphia forever.”
A brave statement, but sincere. At this moment, achingly sincere.
For truly he is in love with the woman. Her mature sobriety, intelligence, wit; her classical features, the austere plainness of her face and hair with their look of dignity. For surely the goddess of love might inhabit a woman like Eva, as any younger woman.
St. Goar impulsively kisses Eva’s hand. She allows the kiss, even as she moves to withdraw her hand in a shy, abashed gesture, like that of a young girl.
Eva says slowly, hesitantly, that perhaps he would not wish her for his bride, if he knew her better.
St. Goar says, smiling, though startled, that such a notion isn’t possible; he can’t hope to know her well enough.
Eva says, studying her hands, and the sparkling gems of her rings that seem incongruous on her ordinary, slightly stubby fingers, that there are different sorts of knowing.
Yes? And what are these?
Speaking carefully, as if dreading a misunderstanding, Eva tells St. Goar that one sort of “knowing” has to do with social position and not sentiment; and that, if he knew her secret, he might feel differently about loving her . . . and wanting to marry her.
Feel differently! Impossible!
But St. Goar has begun to feel a chill. Hesitantly he moves to take the lady’s hand again; indeed, both her hands—so small, so chill!—that he might warm them with his own. And he says softly that there could be no secret that would dissuade him from his love for her . . . for, in loving her, he has felt his soul expand to touch hers; he is certain that he knows her from within, more subtly and more powerfully than she knows herself.
And Eva says with lowered eyes that he is kind; very kind; yet his knowledge of her is faulty, if he has believed what people say about her . . . that, for instance, as the widow of a well-to-do man, she is herself well-to-do.
And St. Goar squeezes her hands, gently; and murmurs that it doesn’t matter to him, not in the slightest, what her financial situation is.
And Eva says stubbornly that it surely does; it must; for he’s a man of the world, and must have expectations—“As scores of ‘admirers’ have had, over the years”—which would be rudely shattered by the truth.
And St. Goar says quietly, “Why then, Eva dear, what is the truth?”
And Eva draws a deep breath, and says quickly, “I will tell you, Albert—and beg your confidence. As my attorneys know, and two or three other persons, I, Eva Clement-Stoddard, have virtually no money at all, but am the mere custodian of my late husband’s fortune. Most of the estate will go to a young nephew of his when the boy
comes of age in two years. Of course I am to be left with something . . . I will never be a pauper . . . but I’m hardly the woman so many believe me to be. It has been my task to maintain a certain role, out of pride; I confess myself, for all my pretense of integrity, a hypocrite . . . a creature of vanity . . . .This house, and its furnishings, and even my newly acquired works of art are not truly mine, you see; I am only their custodian; and when I am exposed, Albert, when all the world knows of my situation, I can hardly expect mercy—for I do not deserve it.”
Eva speaks in so low and shamed a voice, St. Goar scarcely understands her at first. Can it be, this!—the widow’s secret! She is only the custodian of another’s wealth. He moves to comfort her, but she remains sitting stiffly; turned slightly to one side; her heavy-lidded gaze lowered, and her lashes bright with tears. She dares not look at her lover for fear that he loves her no longer, yet, if only she would look, she would see how he stares with a queer hungry compassion: how radiant his face is with the certitude of Love. Gently, by degrees, he draws her into his arms, murmuring those word she hadn’t dared hope to hear: “Dearest Eva, my darling Eva, of course what you say makes no difference to me, nor to my love for you. How can you think it! My love,” he says, pressing her to his bosom, and cupping her overheated face in his hand, “—if it did not sound unfeeling, I would confess that your lack of a worldly fortune actually pleases me. For now, with my modest annuity, and the earnings from my various investments, I, Albert St. Goar, will have the privilege of ‘rescuing’ Eva Clement-Stoddard from want . . . if you will allow me.”
Half-frightened, Eva says that she doesn’t deserve such kindness, as she has been deceiving him these many months; and St. Goar replies that it is hardly kindness on his part—it is Love.
And, suddenly, Eva gives way to a fit of convulsive weeping.
And St. Goar hugs her close.
6.
As the church bells sound the hour of one o’clock, St. Goar takes his leave of Mrs. Clement-Stoddard, near-drunken with happiness; and wondering now why he had ever doubted his powers. For Venus Aphrodite smiles upon him still; has always smiled upon him; and will reward him richly, for his adoration of her.
He is far too excited, of course, to return immediately to Rittenhouse Square. So he drops by the public room of the rowdy Pennsylvania Union Hotel, where his face and his name are unknown, and where he is not likely to meet any of his Philadelphia acquaintances. Standing alone at the bar, he downs a celebratory rye and water—and another—and yet another: for Eva Clement-Stoddard has agreed to marry him, sometime in January of 1917; and all has gone as, in his wildest fancies, he wished.
And does he love her?—he does.
And does he believe for an instant that she is truly but the “custodian” of her wealth?—he does not.
“Eva is a very poor liar,” he thinks, “—doubtless because she has had so little practice. As if I, of all persons, could be taken in by her improbable tale—her shameful ‘secret’! Why, little Millie at the age of six could have played that scene more convincingly . . . .”
In a while, perhaps even the next day, Eva will make another confession to him: that she was advised (strongly against her inclination, no doubt) to pretend to be poor, to test St. Goar’s love.
And St. Goar will profess stunned surprise.
And St. Goar might even pretend to be somewhat . . . hurt.
But in the end he will of course forgive her, for he loves her just the same; and will always love her.
For Aphrodite has smiled upon him another time; and saved his very life.
A CHARMED LIFE
1.
In the hot dry summer of 1914, through the vast territories of Wyoming, Colorado, and, in most concentration, New Mexico, hundreds of notices were posted to the effect that a Philadelphian named Roland Shrikesdale III was missing; having been last seen in mid-April, in Denver, at the Edinburgh Hotel. A $50,000 reward was offered to any person or persons with information leading to Shrikesdale’s whereabouts, said information to be delivered to local law enforcement agents, or telegraphed to Mrs. Anna Emery Shrikesdale, the missing man’s mother, in Philadelphia. Shrikesdale was described as a gentleman of refined habits—thirty-three years old—measuring five feet seven inches, and weighing approximately one hundred eighty pounds—with brown eyes, a mole near his left eye, and fair brown curly hair. His photograph, starkly reproduced, showed the head and shoulders of an unhealthily plump young man with a squinting smile.
The newspapers took avidly to the story, as Shrikesdale was principal heir to one of the great Eastern fortunes; and great pathos derived from the fact that the missing man’s mother was so intent upon finding him she’d embarked westward herself by train, only to be struck down by illness two hours out of Philadelphia. Invalided in Castlewood Hall, Mrs. Shrikesdale bravely allowed rapacious reporters to interview her in the hope that their stories, reprinted across the country, often with likenesses of Roland (she offered them the use of photographs, chalk drawings, even an oil portrait painted at the time of his graduation from Haverford College, by William Merritt Chase) would bring him home. She never doubted for an instant, she said, that her boy was alive—she knew he would be found soon (“For God would not punish us so cruelly, I am sure”); yet feared he’d been taken ill, or was lost or injured in the wilderness. The West was so inhumanly vast!—the state of New Mexico alone, about which one never heard, appeared of monstrous size on the map.
“Yet I am certain—I know—that Roland is alive,” Mrs. Shrikesdale declared.
In the last letter received from her son, dated 15 April, on the stationery of the Edinburgh Hotel, Roland spoke excitedly of traveling south by train to New Mexico, for “fishing, hunting, and Adventure”; his companion being a Westerner of whom he had grown exceedingly fond, and whom, he said, he would trust with his life. (“Harmon is a gentleman of Christian yet manly sensibility, Mother,” Roland said, “—the likes of which are so rarely to be found in Philadelphia! If ever you two meet, I am sure you will like each other, Mother, but I doubt very much that he could be enticed to come East.”) In evident haste Roland had added a postscript to the effect that, since he would be off in the wilds for an indeterminate period of time, Mrs. Shrikesdale should not expect to hear from him again for five weeks, until mid-May at the very earliest.
As she had begged her son from the first not to embark upon so fool-hardy a trip (undertaken, as Roland mysteriously insisted, for the sake of his “physical and spiritual health”), Mrs. Shrikesdale was gravely worried at this point; and stirred quite a fuss in the family, well before mid-May, with her proposal that Roland’s cousins—Bertram, Lyle, and Willard—be sent to fetch him home. (As Roland’s mere existence clouded the happiness of these hot-tempered young men, who stood to inherit a great deal of money if in fact he were dead, this naive proposal on Mrs. Shrikesdale’s part was met with extreme resistance.) By the end of May, however, when no word came from Roland, the family at last reported him officially missing; and, not trusting to law enforcement authorities alone, hired a team of Pinkerton’s best detectives to go west at once. For Roland was surely alive, as Anna Emery Shrikesdale insisted. For God would not be so cruel to her, a poor widow, who had always adored Him.
Thus was launched, with more fanfare than the Shrikesdales might have wished, the search for young Roland, the “Missing Heir,” or the “Missing Millionaire,” as the press called him; with a great deal of feverish excitement throughout the West, and vigorous competition among law enforcement officers and civilians alike for the $50,000 reward. (Which was, at the desperate mother’s insistence, gradually increased to $75,000 by early autumn, when Roland was finally found.) In New Mexico in particular, it was marveled that a new gold rush seemed to have begun, for bounty hunters cropped up everywhere, looking for Roland Shrikesdale III; and men who bore only a glancing resemblance to him were brought forward, often forcibly—sometimes bound and manacled, and thrown over the backs of mules! In Las Cruces, nort
hwest of El Paso, a man led federal officers to a shallow grave in which, he claimed, lay the remains of Roland Shrikesdale III: these being but the bleached bones of someone who had been dead a very long time, very likely the victim of murder. In Central City, Colorado, a female employee of the infamous Black Swan sporting house announced to reporters that she had married the young heir shortly before he disappeared, had a ring (ten-carat diamond in a cheap gold-plated setting) to prove it; and was carrying his child. Yet more audaciously, in Pueblo County, Colorado, a bearded ruffian of no less than forty years of age made his claim to the sheriff that he himself was Roland Shrikesdale III!—and demanded that the reward money be handed over to him at once.
The search reached a peak of sorts in midsummer, and then began to subside, as a consequence of both the unusual heat and aridity of the season, and the perplexing news from abroad, which began at last to take precedence in newspapers over more local affairs. No one could quite comprehend what was happening in Europe: why, on 1 August, did Germany formally declare war on Russia?—and then, on 3 August, on France? Within a matter of days Germany invaded Belgium—England declared war on Germany—even Japan, a world away, declared itself in a state of war with Germany; and President Wilson hastily proclaimed the neutrality of the United States. How was it possible that all of Europe had gone to war over one or another trifling assassination, of some obscure Austrian duke or archduke, with a name no one could remember? . . . What were Americans to make of such behavior? So, when a stranger appeared on the outskirts of Fort Sumner, New Mexico, on the morning of 8 September, afoot, alone, in a dazed and disoriented state, his face caked with dried blood and his clothing badly torn and stained, no one guessed at first that this might be the missing Roland. He could not speak coherently, even to supply his name, or to explain what had happened to him; and he had on his person no identification, and no personal effects other than a broken pocket watch.