“You mean that tinlizzie of a woman is going to be a mama, so that she can grab off our money better?” said Ralph, his ruddy face swelling with affront. He stared at his hands and pursed up his thick red lips. His drawings of a proposed bridge over a tributary of the Mississippi had been accepted. “A beautiful, engineering marvel,” the constructor had called it in a letter which contained a substantial check. The bridge would be small, of course, but it was Ralph’s first concrete effort. He had not told even his wife.
Margaret went silently down the wide and dusky hall, with its lofty furniture and vaulted ceiling and fine paintings on the paneled walls. She was just passing the door of the library when it opened quickly. Gregory was on the threshold, and he started when he saw her. Behind him the sun poured through the library windows, showering its autumn gold on red and blue and black leather, on mahogany tables and lines of books. He had been typewriting; the instrument was uncovered, and an ashtray smoked with rejected cigarettes. He was holding a sheaf of papers in his hands, and he half folded them guiltily.
“Ah, the lass with the delicate air,” he said with light mockery. Damn it, did she have to look both stupid and beautiful at the same time? She had, he commented, eyes like aquamarines as the slanting sunlight struck them, eyes like jewels. Why were most lovely women confounded idiots?
“Hello, Greg,” said Margaret. He was insufferable, but he had a certain gaiety and quickness, and he resembled Edward. “Have you started the great American novel yet?” She glanced at the sheaf of manuscript in his hands. Her tone was not Jaunting but interested, yet he colored with annoyance.
“Briefing it,” he said. “Writing’s the most hellish work in the world.”
Why did she linger? He couldn’t push by her rudely, though he wanted to, and he couldn’t slam the door in her face. She was looking at him wistfully, and all at once he was embarrassed. “I’m sure it is,” she was saying. Her color, he thought, was like a tearose. Under other circumstances, he might have fallen in love with her or, at least, greatly admired her. The thought startled him, and a page slipped from his hand to the long Oriental rug that ran the length of the hall. He bent down precipitously for it, but not before Margaret’s eye had caught the title: “Mr. Thor Takes a Wife, By Gil Enderson.”
Margaret was dumfounded. She read The City regularly. She knew the Thor series and had thought them amusingly and vividly done, but cruel and filled with malignance. Oh, it wasn’t possible that Gregory Enger was Gil Enderson! Her mind swam in rapids of confused and revolted thought. Yet the evidence had lain before her for an illuminated moment. She began to tremble, and ripples of cold ran over her flesh. I must get away at once and think, she said to herself. She made herself smile at Gregory, but her suddenly acute eye saw the guilty hand clenching the sheets of paper. “Everybody expects so much of you,” she murmured, and went down the hall, her knees trembling.
She didn’t see anything, and if she did, it wouldn’t matter, thought Gregory, watching the rose-colored retreating figure. She’s practically illiterate; I bet she never read a book in her life, not to mention The City. Pollyanna in person! Sweetness and light, enveloped in an aroma of Cashmere Bouquet!
Margaret ran up the stairs to her own suite. Her head was aching wildly. She sat down near a window, shivering, her clasped hands tight between her knees. Mr. Thor! Now she saw it clearly. Edward was Mr. Thor. He had been depicted as a brutish but animal-shrewd tycoon, without sensitivity except where money was concerned, a laughable buffoon and boor, a gross and lumbering creature, the butt of the clubs into which he had stormed his battering-ram way, a provincial whose pleasure it was to insult gracious gentlemen, and manipulate them so expertly that he ruined them out of revenge. She did not like The City. She read it for its cartoons, its comments on the theater and the opera, its foreign news, only. She found its stories pointless, its “moods” trivial, its sophistication shallow, its air that of a poseur who is very blasé and who has never been in contact with reality. Clever, yes, like a precocious adolescent, but never adult. It was like Gregory!
In this, Margaret was somewhat in error. If The City affronted her, it was because it was frequently malicious, and malice, to Margaret, was an evil thing, not to be excused by cleverness or wit or fine writing.
Her first impulse was to tell Edward when he came home. Then she shook her head. No. It would only infuriate him. He was so beset these days. Let Gregory write the libelous stories about his brother, if he wished. It was nothing to her. Mr. Thor Takes a Wife. Me, she thought dryly. It’ll be interesting, at any rate. All at once, she hated Gregory, the great American novelist, who exploited his brother and then derided that brother malignly, and kept his counsel and, naturally, the checks that he received for his stories. She had never hated in all her life before, and the power of this new emotion shook her and sickened her. She was appalled at the burning taste of it in her mouth, the clenching of her heart, the heat in her face, the surge in her mind.
I hate them all, she thought. All of them. And to think that I pitied them and wanted to help them! What a buttery imbecile I am! Well, they have a real enemy now, and I’ll stand between them and Ed—all the days of my life. Nobody understands but me, not even his friends, if they are friends, not even that priest who’s known him since he was a child. She began to cry, with mingled hatred, anger, and despair.
The door opened and Edward entered, a gray and thinner Edward, with lines cleft about his heavy mouth and with darker lines about his sunken eyes. Margaret jumped to her feet and ran to him, and put her arms about him, mutely, her head on his shoulder. There was a fierceness in her embrace, a protecting, a tumultuous protest against all the world which so badgered and oppressed him.
“Well, now!” said Edward, lifting her wet face from his shoulder. He was suddenly anxious. “What is it, darling? Has anybody been annoying you?” His eyes narrowed and pointed, and his mouth tightened.
“Oh, no, no,” she said, and tried to smile. “I was just lonely for you—”
“But you didn’t meet me downstairs, as usual, when I come home.”
“I forgot the time,” she faltered. She tugged at his hand. “Sit down, dear. You look so tired.” Her hand was feverish in his, and he restrained her tugging motion. “Margaret, there is something wrong. You’ve got to tell me.”
She thought distractedly. He must never guess how much she now hated his family, those “geniuses”! He must never know what she knew. It would break a heart already too burdened. She laughed shakily. “I’ve got something to tell you. And I hope it’ll make you happy. Sit down, dearest, do sit down. No, you’re not going to look at the newspaper, not tonight! We’re just going to be Mr. and Mrs. Ed Enger tonight, in a nice peaceful world, after a nice humdrum day, at sunset in a little house of our own.” She stopped, and her fingers touched her betraying lips.
Edward still stood and held her hand more tightly. “Margaret, don’t you like my house?”
“I love it!” she cried. “It’s beautiful. It’s your home and mine! Ed, I was just trying to amuse you, just trying to get you into an ordinary mood, so I could tell you.”
“Has anyone said anything to you today to make you look so wretched?” he demanded inexorably, his light eyes fixing themselves on her face. “That’s something I want to know.”
“No, no! In fact, Violette and I had a very interesting talk today. And everybody was so—pleasant. Please, Ed, sit down. Right near the window. And I’ll ring Pierre for a drink for you, and I think I’ll take sherry myself!” Her voice and manner were almost distraught in her false gaiety. She tugged at him more strongly. Her bright hair curled in moist tendrils about her face, and her imploring eyes were a blue largeness.
“If anyone ever says anything to you or annoys you,” he began, in a threatening and ugly tone.
“They wouldn’t,” she pleaded. “There, that’s right—Throw that newspaper aside. Now sit down.” She ran to the bell rope and jerked it, then ran to Edward and sat on his
knee. She held his face in her hands and kissed his mouth ardently, over and over. She forced back her tears and swallowed them; the taste of them in her mouth was like salty blood. His big hand fondled her neck, her soft and vulnerable neck, which throbbed under his touch. His thumb rubbed the delicate flesh with rising passion and love.
“You’re all I have, Margaret,” he said, with unconscious desolation. He pressed his lips in the hollow of her throat.
Yes, all you have, my darling, she thought with hard ferocity and for the first time. No real friends, no real family.
Pierre came in with a silver tray. He looked at Edward and Margaret, and he saw the silvery wetness on Margaret’s cheek. But she smiled at him brightly. He put the tray on a table, bowed, and left.
“Poor tragic old man,” said Margaret, but no longer with any feeling. No one mattered but Ed. She got up and mixed whisky and soda for her husband.
“That reminds me,” said Edward. “About Padraig. He came in today.”
Margaret shook her head so violently that curls dashed against her cheeks. “No, no! Nobody but us tonight, nobody. I don’t want to hear. And I want dinner upstairs tonight, here, just the two of us. I’ve got such news for you!”
“Not dinner,” said Edward, but he smiled. “After all, most of them will be leaving soon, and I like having the family around me at dinnertime.”
“Then I’ll be here alone,” said Margaret, mutinously, pouring a small glass of sherry for herself. “In fact,” she added with a mysterious glance, “I think I’ll go to bed early.”
“What in hell’s the matter with you, pet?” he asked with tenderness. “All right; sit on my knee again.” He hugged her to him. “Now tell me the wonderful news. I suppose it’s news? You’re all excited.”
She drank a sip of sherry and smiled at him over the crystal rim of the glass. “Guess,” she said.
He thought. It couldn’t be bad news, though her eyes were moist and her color too high, her manner too artificially vivacious. She was pretending, she was hiding something. “All right,” he said. “I give up. I can’t imagine anything happening in this house that would make you so bouncy.”
She flung out a hand dramatically, and rolled up her eyes. “‘Mr. and Mrs. Edward Enger, of Waterford, New York, announce the birth of a son—or a daughter—on—on—perhaps March thirty-first or April first, 1915!’”
He caught her hand quickly and held it. “Margaret! Are you sure?” His face was suddenly young and ebullient and alive. “Who told you, and when?”
She laughed with real delight now. “I’m sure.” And she told him.
He cradled her in his arms as if she herself were a child. They sat together, her chin on his shoulder, her forehead pressed against his cheek. The autumn sunset, swift and golden and red, stood at the windows. They were silent for some time.
Then Edward said, “He, or she, will be a genius, of course.”
Margaret sat up, and her face was suddenly stern. She looked at Edward with direct fervor and simplicity. “Oh, God, no. Dear God, no. Anything but that. Anything but that!” And she clasped her hands together as if praying, and her face, turned to the sunset, was white and set.
“Do you want it to be a fool?” asked Edward, a little vexed.
“Ed, dear, there’s a middle way between being a genius and a fool. A person can be good and sound and gentle and intelligent and kind, without being gifted. In fact, goodness itself is genius, and there’s precious little of that sort in the world.”
She was frightened. She fervently prayed that her child would not be a “genius.” For Ed’s sake, for Ed’s dear sake. And for the sake of the child itself. If I see any sign of a “gift,” I’ll nip it right in the bud, I will, I will! she promised herself resolutely. And then she laughed.
“Ed, I want the baby to be exactly like you, for you are an authentic genius, though no one knows it but me!”
PART THREE
“Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”
TWENTY-THIRD PSALM
CHAPTER I
David Enger sat, wrapped in his long, fur-lined broadcloth cape, in the little dressing room. It was very cold, this January night, and the room was not heated adequately, and even the blaze of lights around the mirror seemed glacial. He smoked and read the evening newspapers, his fine dark forehead puckered with gloomy anxiety, his aquiline profile sharp in the mirror, his sensitive mouth drawn in. Finally he threw the paper aside and lighted another cigarette from the one he had smoked down. He tapped his narrow foot on the gritty wooden floor, and shook his head as if throwing off some tormenting thoughts. His eye touched a large photograph on the dressing table; it was a sepia portrait of a young and very beautiful mulatto girl with a smile that appeared to illuminate her face with its own light. David involuntarily smiled. He knew Melinda Russell very well, and her two small children. She had introduced his last song on the program of her husband, Prince Emory, on Christmas Eve, and the sheet music had already sold over half a million copies. It was a “popular” song but very melodious, and everyone was singing it, in its minor key and smooth rhythm: “Song for a Sad Day.” Melinda had a voice like velvet, deep and rich, and vibrating with some natural melancholy which did not appear in her ordinary mood of cheerfulness.
David could faintly hear the insistent and rapturous applause from the stage of the theater. No one had expected that a band, even Prince Emory’s band, could fill a theater dedicated to “serious” plays and ballet or an occasional and “stupendous” five-reel picture from Hollywood or New York. Yet Prince Emory’s band had filled not only every seat in orchestra and balcony but every inch of standing room also, to the immense disgust of austere critics and those who professed to believe that Prince was a “desecration.” David reflected that here in New York he himself had drawn only one hundred men and women this week, but he was not inclined to cynicism, nor, indeed, inclined to any thought but satisfaction, considering the tremendous popularity of his six songs which his friend had introduced over the past three years. He had over forty thousand dollars in the bank now, and, as an Enger, he was not averse to money. He was considering investments.
The door blew open, and a gale of applause rushed in, even at this distance from the stage. Prince Emory, nee Billy Russell, bounded into the dressing room, his handsome face ashine with excitement and gratification. More than ever, David thought, he resembled animated bronze, even with his crown of thick black curls.
“Ho!” he cried to David, and he grasped David’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder. “How did it come along?”
“Fine. As usual,” said David. “I came away just as you started ‘Song for a Sad Day.’ As I hear it at least three times every twenty-four hours, I thought I’d miss it this time. Well? Do you think you can hold this theater for the next three days?” He smiled at his friend artlessly.
Billy lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down the room as if his excitement were a fire in him. He waved his arms. “Three days? The manager’s already asking me to stay at least another week! Do you know who was in the audience tonight? Irene Castle! She sent a note to me; she wants to see me tomorrow night!” He laughed joyously. “She and her husband probably want to adapt your song for their dances. More royalties, friend, more royalties for both of us.” He looked over his shoulder at David with pure delight.
He sat astride a chair; his vitality crackled about him. “I’m going to send Melinda a wire tonight.” He glowed at David; then his face changed. “I wanted to tell you I went to the Town Hall yesterday, to hear you. Dave—”
“Now don’t tell me I’m a genius. I’m just an excellent mechanic. We’ve gone over that before.” David flung his arm over the back of his chair and his expression was serene. “Anyway, it keeps me in practice, and what if I steal a theme or so from one of the masters? Bringing the classics to the masses.”
“Don’t put on that cynical pose,” said Bill
y, laughing. “Davey Jones is doing very well in the financial department, or am I mistaken?”
David looked solemn. “Davey Jones, popular song writer, couldn’t be doing better. Thanks for the last check. By the way, how long can we keep the press from poking around and discovering who Davey Jones is?”
“That’s a thought that keeps nagging at me,” said Billy. “So far, I’ve ducked out with a mysterious expression and a sly wink. That makes them dance tiptoe on hot coals, and slaver.”
David nodded. “I’m getting a little disturbed,” he said. “There’s my Negro opera, Samson Smith.”
Billy jumped to his feet again. “Man! That’s going to set the country to pounding and shouting and singing and whistling! The boys have been practicing it, just for their own enjoyment, and then they get up and sing and stamp and whirl around like tops. That aria for Delilah Brown in the second act: ‘One Wonderful Kiss.’ When Melinda hears that, I’m not going to keep her down on the farm; she’ll insist on being the prima donna.”
“Of course,” said David. He rocked one elegant leg over the other. “I had Melinda in mind all the time. Who else but Melinda?”
Billy chewed one fingernail thoughtfully and stared at David. “And now we come back to the press boys. Who’s going to play Davey Jones? Don’t you think it’s time you stopped impersonating a classical concert pianist, and be David Enger, composer of Samson Smith?” He sat down again and regarded his friend with eager demand.
“No,” said David shortly. “No.” His face darkened. Now Billy, for the first time, saw that David was even thinner than usual and that some heavy misery was shadowing his glittering and restless eyes. David turned his head aside from the penetrating study of his friend. “After all, I can’t do this to my parents and my brother this late in the day. The money, and even the fame, wouldn’t matter to them, if I stepped out of this damned cloak and let them see what I really am.”