She Buildeth Her House

  ELEVENTH CHAPTER

  PAULA IS SWEPT DEEP INTO A DESOLATE COUNTRY BY THE HIGH TIDE, BUT NOTESA QUICK CHANGE IN SELMA CROSS

  Paula wrote a short letter to Quentin Charter in the afternoon, and didnot begin to regret it until too late. It was not that she had saidanything unwise or discordant--but that she had written at all.... Herheart felt dead. She had trusted her all to one--and her all was lost. Alittle white animal that had always been warm and petted, suddenlyturned naked to face the reality of winter,--this was the first sense,and the paramount trouble was that she could not die quickly enough. Thefull realization was slow to come. Indeed, it was not until the nightand the next day that she learned the awful reaches of suffering ofwhich a desolated human mind is capable. It was like one of thosehistoric tides which rise easily to the highest landmarks of theshore-dweller, and not till then begin to show their real fury,devastating vast fields heretofore virgin to the sea. Along many coastsand in many lives there is one, called The High Tide.... Paula felt thatshe could have coped with her sorrow, had this been a personal blow, buther faith in the race of men, the inspiration of her work, her dream ofservice--all were uprooted.

  She did not pretend to deny that she had loved Quentin Charter--herfirst and loftiest dream of a mate, the heart's cry of all herwomanhood. True, as man and woman, they had made no covenant, but to her(and had he not expressed the same in a score of ways?), there had beenenacted a more wonderful adjustment, than any words could bring about.This was the havoc. She had lost more than a mere human lover. She darednow to say it, because, in losing, she perceived how great it hadbecome--the passion was gone from her soul. Her place in the world wasdesolate; all her labors pointless. As a woman, she had needed his arms,less than an anchorage of faith in his nobility. And how her faith hadrushed forth to that upper window across the States!

  _Words_--the very word was poison to her. Writing--an emptiness, atreachery. Veritably, he had torn the pith out of all her lovedbooks.... Bellingham had shown her what words meant--words that drewlight about themselves, attracting a brilliance that blinded her; wordsthat wrought devilishness in the cover of their white light--butBellingham had not assailed her faith. This was the work of a man whohad lifted her above the world, not one who called from beneath.Bellingham could not have crippled her faith like this--and left it todie.... Almost momentarily, came the thought of his letters--thoughts_from_ these letters. They left her in a dark--that was madness....

  And if they were false, what was the meaning of her exaltations? Nightand morning she had looked into the West, sending him all the graces ofher mind, all the secrets of her heart. He had told her of the strangepower that had come to him, of the new happiness--how, as never before,he had felt radiations of splendid strength. She had not hurried him toher, but had read with ecstasy, believing that a tithe of his new powerwas her gift.... Words, desolate, damnable words.... "And I had thoughtto heal and lift New York," she exclaimed mockingly, looking down intothe gray streets after the age-long night. "New York holds fast to herrealities--the things she has found sure. It is well to be normal andlike New York!"

  The day after the door had shut upon Selma Cross, Paula was a betrayedspirit wandering alone in polar darkness. She had not slept, nor couldshe touch food. Twice the actress had rapped; repeatedly the telephonecalled--these hardly roused her. Letters were thrust under her door andlay untouched in the hall. She was lying upon the lounge in the littleroom of books, as the darkness swiftly gathered that second day. All themeanings of her childhood, all the promises for fulfillment with theyears, were lost. The only passion she knew was for the quick end oflife--to be free from the world, and its Bellinghams.

  "God, tell me," she murmured, and her voice sounded dry and strange inthe dark, "what is this thing, Soul, which cries out for itsIdeal--builds its mate from all things pure, from dreams that arecleansed in the sky; dreams that have not known the touch of any earthlything--what is this Soul, that, now bereft, cries with Rachel, 'Death,let me in!...' Oh, Death, put me to sleep--put me to sleep!"

  * * * * *

  Voices reached her from the hall:

  "You can knock or ring, sir, if you like," the elevator-man was saying,"but I tell you Miss Linster is not there. She has not answered the'phone, and there is one of the letters, sticking out from under thedoor, that I put there this morning, or yesterday afternoon."

  "When did you see her last?" The voice was Reifferscheid's.

  "Day before yesterday she was in and out. Miss Cross, the lady who livesin this other apartment, said she called on Miss Linster yesterdaymorning."

  "The point is that she left no word--either with you or with us--beforegoing away. We are very good friends of hers. I'll ring for luck----"

  The bell rang long and loudly. Paula imagined the thick thumb pressedagainst it, and the big troubled face. She wanted to answer--but facingReifferscheid was not in her that moment.... The elevator was calledfrom below.

  "No use," Reifferscheid said finally. "Here's a coin for your trouble.I'll call up the first thing in the morning----"

  She heard the click of the elevator-door, and the quick whine of thecar, sinking in the shaft. She recalled that she had not been at _TheStates_ for four or five days. She had intended going down-townyesterday.... She thought long of Reifferscheid's genuine and changelesskindness, of his constant praise for sincerity anywhere and his battlingfor the preservation of ideals in all work. His faith in Charterrecurred to her--and his frequently unerring judgments of men and womenshe had known. All about him was sturdy and wholesome--a substance,this, to hold fast.... Reifferscheid had come in the crisis. Paula fellasleep, thinking of snails and stickle-backs, flowers and Sister Annie,big trees and solid friends.

  She awoke in a different world--at least, a world in which tea and toastand marmalade were reckonable. Her thoughts went bravely down into thedepression for salvage; and a mind that can do this is not without hope.It was only eight. Reifferscheid had not yet 'phoned.... Charter wouldhave her letter now, or soon--that letter written seven eternities agoin the first hysteria, while she could yet weep. She could not havewritten in the ice-cold silence of yesterday. She wished that she hadnot let him see that she could weep. When the tragedy had risen tohigh-tide in her soul--there had been no words for him. Would she everwrite again?...

  Her mind reverted now to the heart of things. In the first place, SelmaCross would not intentionally lie. She asked so little of men--and hadasked less a few years ago--that to have her call one "cad" with anadjective, was a characterscape, indeed. That she had intimately knownQuentin Charter three years before, was unsettling in itself.... True,he made no pretensions to a righteous past. All his work suggested utterdelvings into life. He had even hinted a background that wasblack-figured and restlessly stirring, but she had believed that hewrote these things in the same spirit which prompted the ascetic Thoreauto say, "I have never met a worse man than myself." She believed thatthe evils of sense were not so complicated, but that genius can fathomthem without suffering their defilement. His whole present, as depictedin his letters, was a song--bright as his open prairies, and pure as thebig lakes of his country.... Could she become reconciled to extendedperiods of physical abandonment in the Charter-past? Faintly her heartanswered, but quickly, "Yes, if they are forever nameless...." "Specificabandonments?" Her mind pinned her heart to this, with the addedsentence, "Is it fair for you not to hear what Selma Cross has tosay--and what Quentin Charter may add?..."

  The elevator-man was at the door with further letters. He did not ring,because it was so early. Softly, she went into the hall. There was anaccumulation of mail upon the floor--two from _The States_; one fromCharter.... This last was opened after a struggle. It must have been oneof those just brought, for it was dated, the day before yesterday, andshe usually received his letters the second morning. Indeed, this hadbeen written on the very afternoon that she had penned her agony.

  I know I shall be sorry that I have permit
ted you to find me in a black mood like this, but I feel that I must tell you. A sense of isolation, altogether new, since first your singing came, flooded over me this afternoon. It is as though the invisible connections between us were deranged--as if there had been a storm and the wires were down. It began about noon, when the thought of the extreme youth of my soul, beside yours, began to oppress me. I perceived that my mind is imperiously active rather than humbly wise; that I am capable of using a few thoughts flashily, instead of being great-souled from rich and various ages. Ordinarily, I should be grateful for the gifts I have, and happy in the bright light from you--but this last seems turned away. Won't you let me hear at once, please?

  She was not given long to ponder upon this strange proof of his innerresponsiveness; yet the deep significance of it remained with her, andcould not but restore in part a certain impressive meaning of theirrelation. Selma Cross called, and Reifferscheid 'phoned, as Paula wasjust leaving for down-town. It had been necessary, she explained, to theliterary editor in his office, for her to make a sorry little pilgrimageduring the past few days. She was very grateful it was over.Reifferscheid said abruptly that pilgrimages were nefarious when theymade one look so white and trembly.

  "The point is, you'd better make another to Staten Island," he added."Nice rough passage in a biting wind, barren fields, naked woods, andall that. Besides, you must see my system of base-burners----"

  "I'll just do that--when I catch up a little on my work," Paula said."I'm actually yearning for it, but there are so many loose ends to tieup, that I couldn't adequately enjoy myself for a day or two. Really,I'm not at all ill. You haven't enough respect for my endurance, whichis of a very good sort."

  "Don't be too sure about that," Reifferscheid said quickly. "It'saltogether too good to be hurt.... Do you realize you've never had yourhat off in this office?"

  "I hadn't thought of it," she said, studying him. Plainly by his bravadohe wasn't quite sure of his ground.

  "There ought to be legislation against people with hair the color ofyours----" Reifferscheid regarded her a moment before he added, "wearinghats. You must come over to Staten--if for no other reason----"

  "Oh, I begin to see perfectly now," Paula observed. "You want to add meto your system of base-burners."

  He chuckled capaciously. "Early next week, then?"

  "Yes, with delight"

  He did not tell her of being worried to the point of travelling farup-town to ring the bell of her apartment. She could not like him lessfor this.... There was a telegram from Charter, when she reached home.In the next two hours, a thought came to Paula and was banished a scoreof times; yet with each recurrence it was more integrate and compelling.This was Saturday afternoon. Selma Cross returned from her matineeshortly before six and was alone. Paula met her in the hall, andfollowed into the other's apartment.

  "I have just an hour, dear. Dimity has supper ready. Stay, won't you?"

  "Yes," Paula forced herself to say. "I wanted to ask you about QuentinCharter. You were called away--just as you were speaking of him theother morning.... I have not met him, but his two recent books are verywonderful. I reviewed the second for _The States_. He thanked me in aletter which was open to answer."

  Selma Cross stretched out her arms and laughed mirthlessly. "And so youtwo have been writing letters?" she observed. "I'm putting down a betthat his are rich--if he's interested."

  Paula had steeled herself for this. There were matters which she mustlearn before making a decision which his telegram called for. Her mindheld her inexorably to the work at hand, though her heart would havefaltered in the thick cloud of misgivings.

  "Yes, there is much in his letters--so much that I can't quite adjusthim to the name you twice designated. Remember, you once before calledhim that--when I didn't know that you were speaking of Quentin Charter."

  "I'll swear this much also," Selma Cross said savagely, "he has foundyour letters worth while."

  "Is that to the point?"

  "Why, yes Paula," the other replied, darting a queer look at her. "If Iam to be held to a point--it is--because, as a writer, he uses what isof value. He makes women mad about him, and then goes back to hisgarret, and sobers up enough to write an essay or a story out of hisrecent first-hand studies in passion."

  "You say he was drinking--when you knew him?"

  "Enough to kill another man. It didn't seem to make his temperament playless magically. He was never silly or limp, either in mind or body, buthe must have been burned to a cinder inside. He intimated that he didn'tdare to go on exhibition any day before mid-afternoon."

  Paula, very pale, bent forward and asked calmly as she could: "I wishyou would tell me _just_ what Quentin Charter did to make you think ofhim always--in connection with that name."

  "On condition that you will recall occasionally that you have a platebefore you--also supper, which won't stay hot." Selma Cross spoke withsome tension, for she felt that the other was boring rather pointedly,and it was not her time of day for confessions. Still, the quality ofher admiration for Paula Linster involved large good nature.".... Extraordinary, as it may seem, my dear, Charter made me believethat he was passionately in love. I was playing Sarah Blixton in _CallerHerrin_,--my first success. It was a very effective minor part and anexceptionally good play. It took his eye--my work especially--and hearranged to meet me. Felix Larch, by the way, took care of thisformality for him. Incidentally, I didn't know Felix Larch, but my cuewas greatly to be honored. Charter told me that Larch said I waspeculiar for an actress and worth watching, because I had a brain....The man, Charter, was irresistible in a wine-room. I say in a wine-room,not that his talk was of the sort you might expect there, but that hewas drinking--and was at home nowhere else. You see, he has a workingknowledge of every port in the world, and to me it seemed--of everybook. Then, he has a sharp, swift, colorful way of expressinghimself.... I told you, Villiers was away. I couldn't realize that itwas merely a new type Charter found in me.... We were together when Iwasn't at work. It was a wild and wonderful fortnight--to me. He used tosend notes in the forenoon--things he thought of, when he couldn'tsleep, he said. I knew he was getting himself braced in those earlyhours.... Then, one night at supper, he informed me that he was leavingfor the West that night. He had only stopped in New York, on the wayhome from Asia, via Suez. I was horribly hurt, but there was nothing forme to say. He was really ill. The drink wouldn't bite that night, hesaid. We finished the supper like two corpses, Charter trying to make mebelieve he'd be back shortly. I haven't seen him since."

  Paula began to breathe a bit more freely. "Didn't he write?"

  "Yes, at first, but I saw at once he was forcing. Then he dictated ananswer to one of mine--dictated a letter to me----" Selma Cross halted.The lids narrowed across her yellow eyes.

  "He had said he loved you?" Paula asked with effort.

  "By the way," Selma Cross retorted, "did you notice that word 'love' ineither of his recent books--except as a generality?"

  "Since you speak of it, I do recall he markedly avoided it," Paula saidwith consuming interest.

  "No, he didn't use it to me. He said he never put it in a man's orwoman's mouth in a story. Ah, but there are other words," she went onsoftly. "The man was a lover--beyond dreams--impassioned."

  "About that dictated letter?" Paula urged hastily.

  "Yes, I told him I didn't want any more that way. Then Villiers wasback, and beckoning again. The last word I received was from Charter'sstenographer. She said he was ill. Oh, I did hear afterward--that he wasin a sanatorium. God knows, he must have landed there--if he kept up thepace he was going when I knew him."

  In the moment of silence which followed, Paula was hoping with all hermight--that this was the end.

  "Oh, I know what you're thinking!" Selma said suddenly. "He hasfascinated you, and you can't see that he's a rotten cad--from what I'vesaid so far. A woman can never see the meanness of a man from anotherwoman's experience with hi
m. She forgives him for calling forth allanother woman has--and then shaking her loose like a soiled bath-robewhen one's tub is ready. But it's different when she's the discardedwoman!... He was so deep, I can't believe he didn't know that episodeswere new to me. Likely, he's had so many around the world, that he can'ttake them more seriously from the woman's angle--than from his own....Quentin Charter was the first man to arouse all my dreams. Can't you seehow it hurt when he turned out to be--well, that name you refuse toutter?"

  "Yes, of course, yes, but you suggest more, Selma!"

  "He used me for 'copy,' as they call it. His article on the 'acting ofstage-folk after hours,' appeared in a magazine a few weeks later. He'salways a saint in his garret, you know. The article was filled withcutting cynicism about stage-matters, many of which he had discovered inthe two weeks with me--and laughed over with his wine. I could haveforgiven that, only he made me believe that there was not a thoughtapart from Selma Cross in his mind when we were together.... Oh, what'sthe use of me lying? I could have forgiven that, anyway!"

  "What was it, you could not forgive?" Paula's face was bloodless.

  "He told it all about--how easy I had proved in his hands!" the actressrevealed with suppressed fury.

  The other shrank back.

  "That's where the expression comes in, Paula--the expression you hate.Drunk or sober--cad's the word. What a woman gives to a _man_ is put inhis inner vault forever. What she gives to a _cad_--is passed on to hisfriends."

  Paula arose, tortured as if branded within. Here was a defection ofcharacter which an entire incarnation of purity could not make whole. Itwas true that in her heart, she had not been mortally stricken before;true, as Selma Cross had so bitterly declared, that a woman is notstayed from mating with a man because a sister has suffered at hishands.

  "I have nothing to say about the word, if that is true." Paula spokewith difficulty, and in a hopeless tone.

  "Please, eat some supper, dear----"

  There was heart-break in the answer: "I cannot. I'm distressed, becauseI have spoiled yours.... You have answered everything readily--and ithas hurt you.... I--feel--as--if--I--must--tell--you--why--I--asked--orI wouldn't have dared to force questions upon you. His letters made methink of him a great deal. When you picked up his book the other morningand said _that_--why, it was all I could stand for the time. His work isso high and brave--I can hardly understand how he could talk about awoman whose only fault was that she gave him what he desired. Are yousure he cannot prove that false?"

  Selma Cross left her seat at the table and took Paula in her arms.

  "How can he?" she whispered. "The old man knew all about us. One of hisfriends heard Charter talking about the easy virtue of stage women--thatthere were scarcely no exceptions! Charter hinted in his article thatacting is but refined prostitution. Villiers said because I had a namefor being square Charter had chosen to prove otherwise!... Then see howhe dropped me--not a word in three years from my memorable lover! AndVilliers knew about us--first and last!... I could murder that sort--andto think that his devil's gift has been working upon you----"

  "You have told me quite enough, thank you." Paula interrupted in alifeless voice. "I shall not see him."

  Selma Cross held her off at arms' length to glance at her face. "Youwhat?" she exclaimed.

  "He is on the way to New York and will be at the _Granville_ to-morrowafternoon, where he hopes to find a note saying he may call hereto-morrow night. There shall be no note from me----"

  "But did you write to him, Paula?" the actress asked strangely excited.

  "Yes--a little after you left me the other morning. It was silly of me.Oh, but I did not tell him what I had heard--or who told me!... Finishyour supper--you must go."

  "And how did you learn of his coming?"

  "He telegraphed me to-day. That's why I bothered you at your supper----"

  "What a dramatic situation--if you decided to see him!" Selma Cross saidintensely. "And to think--that to-morrow is Sunday night and I don'twork!"

  Paula felt brutalized by the change in the other's manner. "I havedecided not to see him," she repeated, and left the apartment.